


the 22nd Phantom volume 2

by Scottyshuman



Category: Highlander: The Series, The Phantom (2009)
Genre: Beaches, Gen, Ghosts, Honeymoon, Horses, Pagan Gods, Storms, eventing, jungle living, kinda odd marriage arrangements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:02:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 47,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23954284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scottyshuman/pseuds/Scottyshuman
Summary: what happens after the wedding and before the birth, a lot, actuallyany character you've ever heard of before isn't mine





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sex right off the bat, cause honeymoon, right?

Donna McLaren, no, she told herself, Donna Walker, now, lay curled in a lazy, contented pile of fur and warm flesh, her husband entwined with her and still sleeping. Though they rested high above the ground in an imaginative tree house, yet more of the jungle canopy kept their nest cool. It was far past dawn, their seventh day of solitary honeymoon, and though hot and humid enough for a sauna elsewhere in the thick forest, it was idyllic in this paradise. Wind from the sea cooled them, and even made furs desirable at night, after their usual and frequent bouts of lovemaking.

  
The face of her lover was turned upward as he slept, fully lit by the late morning sun, a rare and sometimes dangerous exposure. Though ruggedly handsome, a face full of character that overwhelmed its youth, it was not often shown to others by its owner. Its normal condition was masked and hooded, eyes unseen, hair concealed, a thing of mystery and safety for others, In normal circumstances, only Donna herself would see her husband bare of face, for only she was safe from the deadly curse his bloodline bore.

  
Throughout the vast jungle that curse was known and respected, though Donna herself had yet to see it at work. Those who did not know were told, and most believed. Those who had not were almost all dead, victims of the curse, or their own evil, for this man beside her was the Phantom. Every child in the jungle, and all their parents and grandparents, knew the curse, and each had learned it when young. That he who looks on the unmasked face of the Phantom will die horribly. None could tell the origins of the curse, not even the man whose thick black hair tickled her left breast, known to uncounted people as the Ghost Who Walks, the Man who Cannot Die, The Phantom. Only his family, wife and children were safe from the uncanny results of malediction, and Donna was grateful it was so. She had fallen in love, she knew, before she had ever seen his eyes, his hair, his naked face, but it was very nice to be able to look at him this way and not die of it.

  
She was, she thought smugly and lustfully, far more likely to die of things other than his bare face. One of those things was a large, gentle hand, decorated by a silver death’s head ring, which rested on her hip. Her own hand caressed another part of his anatomy with possessive gentleness, recalling his skillful, enthusiastic love making of the previous night. Her touch woke him and with the speed of a striking cobra, he had her pinned beneath his massive body, helpless as those grey eyes stared down into her own, his hands holding her wrists. He kissed her gently, with an almost Italianate passion, and Donna felt her inner muscles contract and her heart speed up. He worked his way down to her throat, at which lay her jade totem, the heitiki of Atuamoana, the sea goddess Apakura of her native New Zealand. Then to her breasts, each nipple teased with tongue and lips and teeth until she arched her body beneath him, moaning and shuddering, her tanned flesh begging wordlessly for his possession.

  
“Lay still,” he commanded softly, his voice deep and calm, a voice that even in desperate situations brought obedience, no less than now. He spread her thighs without resistance, and examined her exposed genitals with possessive delicacy, as if checking on a prize rose, his fingers gentle, yet probing, their calloused tips amazingly sensitive to her body and moods. When his tongue touched her fluid-drenched lips, she shuddered and surrendered herself to him. He brought her easily to a peak of ecstasy in which all she could do was whimper and writhe in his hands, lost in the nirvana of his presence. He withdrew from his wife’s center, his stubbled jaw wet with her juices and let her calm a little, come back to earth enough to see him, poised over her like a threat.

  
She saw him from between her raised knees, his manhood huge, erect, like a ready stallion. Her hands went to his throbbing penis eagerly, and with shaking care, put his gift to her into its proper place. His gentle, insistent pressure, where another might have plunged in with hurried speed, made her choke out his name, a sob of delight and love. Such a huge phallus might once have hurt her, had he been as other men, but though only married for a week, she’d been making love to him, with him, for a month. Now her body ached for him, not from him, and he had learned how to pleasure her even as he found his own satisfaction.

  
After a long, shuddering climax, he lay on her, in her yet, his broad, hard-muscled chest pillowed on her soft, rounded breasts. His shaft, spent for the moment, was shrinking, her fluids and his seed dripping unheeded to the furs beneath them. Their sweaty, lightly tanned skins were melted together from the heat of their passions, and she was stroking his back with one hand, his hair with the other. Blue fire awoke from her right hand as she smoothed his thick black hair, a sapphire set in gold that had been her engagement ring. The other hand, the left, stroked down his back, over scars and smooth flesh alike, its emerald and diamonds sparking in gold, her wedding band.

  
His hands, too, bore rings, of silver, not golden, and far older than her own. The Skull Ring on his right hand, and the other on his left, would leave marks, almost like tattoos or scars, if he desired it. Many a criminal had the mark of a death’s head on his flesh, a sign of her husband’s displeasure. Folk of city and jungle alike distrusted those so marked, knowing they were at the least untrustworthy, at worst, criminals.

  
Her stroking hand found the scars on his back, an uncomfortable reminder of his mortality, though thousands thought him unkillable. They were also reminders of her first indication of his humanity. The scattered sunlight through the high leaves caught her only other ornament, a gold and jade bracelet, a wedding gift of supposedly magical protection.

  
“You know, darling,” he murmured into her ear as she stroked his dark hair, “we should leave today for home. Unless you want to spend some more time doing this, we should probably get some breakfast, or lunch, maybe.”

  
“We can come back now and then, can’t we?” she sighed, enjoying the pressure of his two hundred plus pounds on her own strong body. She’d never felt so loved and protected as when he was with her. Though she knew him to be mortal, it was like being with a god.

  
“Of course, Donna, darling,” he told her, carefully rolling off to the side of her delectable body. He was always far more careful of her than she was, often gentler than she wanted him to be. It was because he loved her, though, and knew he was strong, far stronger than other men, and he had an almost phobic worry about accidentally hurting her. She protested often that she was stronger than she looked, that she wouldn’t break, but he knew how easily he could hurt a man, and he didn’t intend to hurt her. “It’s only about the same distance from home as Keela Wee Beach.”

  
“Then I do kind of miss everyone,” she said in some surprise. “Not that I couldn’t be happy with just you, alone, here, forever, but I rather miss Zarala and Tim and Jula and everyone. It’s strange, I’ve never missed anyone like that before, except Tim. I don’t believe I’ve ever felt, I guess, homesick, is what it is. Well, maybe not homesick, but like I’d rather be there than anywhere else.”

  
“I know, dear,” he said understandingly, kissing her shoulder. “We should go eat and take a last swim. It may be a long walk, you know.”

  
“I think Zarala, and maybe Toma, are lurking out there with horses,” Donna told her new husband, sitting up. “But we could just go back to Keela Wee for the night, you know. Serve tradition and stay the night in the Jade Hut, at least if everyone’s gone.”

  
“I think I’ll save that for our anniversary, darling,” he told her, making no move to follow her lead as she stood up and stretched. “Although, I’m pretty sure everyone is gone by now. We’ve counted six plane flights, and that should be everyone, don’t you think?”

  
“We can’t tell from here, can we?” she said, looking out over the lagoon toward the sea. He found her tall, slender body, from his angle of view, set against the sky, the most beautiful thing on earth. At least that he’d seen today. Her blond-brown hair had lightened in the last week of frequent sun and salt water swims, the reddish tone now coppery in the light. Her fair skin, pale when he’d first met her, now sported an even, light tan, only slightly darker now on arms and face than her large, firm breasts. Her body was muscle and bone and a heart of passion, he decided, and a mind of wonderful curiosity. He went on silently cataloging her wonderfulness in his mind until she turned and poked him gently with one toe in the ribs.

  
“Come on, o Ghost Who Lazes About,” she teased. “I’m going to beat you to breakfast at that rate. I’ll eat all the bananas!”

  
“If you haven’t by now,” he said reasonably, sitting up, “you probably can’t. Monkeys don’t eat as many bananas as you do. I’ll take my chances.”

  
“Suit yourself, Kit,” she said, and stepped off the edge of the platform, disappearing instantly. Though he knew how the trick was done, the man had a momentary pang of fear, and regretted showing it to her. Donna took an absolute joy in practicing her gymnastic skills, and had no idea that she could worry him with their use.

  
He sighed and followed her over the edge, using limbs and vines to break his controlled fall, exhibiting skills that would have placed him in any international competition. He would never, he told himself, limit his wife’s practice of her skills, any more than he would cease his own practice. No less than he, her skills might one day mean the difference between life or death, her own or his. Her laugh came from ahead of him, and he moved toward it, sensing movement around him, both stealthy and open. He came to the clearing by the banana trees only to see a huge tiger, easily eight hundred pounds, pounce on his wife’s naked back.

  
“Oof!” said Donna, as she was taken to the ground. “No fair, Rajah! I haven’t even eaten yet, and now I’m all sandy. You could have let me have one.”

  
“Tigers don’t do ‘fair’,” observed the man, taking a hold on the striped ruff. “Rajah, enough. Let her up. Good boy.”

  
“Ahh,” said Donna, brushing at herself. “Why do all your animals insist on licking my skin off? First Devil, then this lot. We won’t even mention you, darling.”

  
“You must either smell or taste good,” he told her, scratching the giant tiger’s chin so that a thunderous purr filled the air. “I think both, but I’m only human, and my nose is kind of dull compared to theirs. But I do agree with them, I like licking you.”

  
“I think that about you, too,” she pointed out, standing up and reaching for a banana stalk. A leopard padded out of the brush and began weaving itself around her legs, acting like an overgrown housecat. “And none of these kitties do that to you. Good morning, Domino. I’ll pet you after I have a few bananas, right?”

  
“It’s an entirely different relationship, darling,” said the Phantom, pulling off a banana for himself. “You’re a new plaything, a new creature. I’m their boss, their trainer, the animal equivalent of God. They have to respect me as much as love me, or this whole zoo goes to ruin. Although, they do like to play with me, too.”

  
He pointed at a livid bruise on one thigh, incurred during a kind of group wrestling match, accidentally delivered by the lion who was lazily watching them from the shade nearby. An eland buck and a forest antelope stood beside him, browsing on leaves, the eland standing with one foot on either side of the huge male. A zebra was visible through the trees on the grassy lawn above the high tides. Several lowland gorillas played around the grazing animal, safe from hunters and other human collectors, for this was a tabu place for other humans, the Phantom’s Isle of Eden.

  
No one came to this island without the big man’s permission, for on this island were kept his pets. Grass-eaters and meat-eaters, raised together practically from birth, ate side by side, the meat-eaters dining on fish from the lagoon. Mori fisher folk daily stocked the clear, shallow waters with live fish for the big cats, and were the only eyes Donna and her husband had had to avoid on their idyllic honeymoon.

  
Donna finished her fifth banana and turned to the leopard sitting on her toes, slitted eyes on her with demanding anticipation. The New Zealander spent several minutes scratching and stroking the spotted cat, who purred almost as loudly as the tiger. Domino, like most of Eden’s inhabitants, had been orphaned at a very young age, and hand raised by either Kit or his father. After a last scratch, Donna straightened up and grinned at her naked husband, now astride the tiger, fingers deep in the orange and black ruff, the feline eyes slitted with enjoyment.

  
“Swim, then bath, then dressed?” she asked rather ungrammatically. “Better hurry, or the Mori will catch us at it.”

  
“Okay,” he agreed, releasing the tiger and stepping toward her. “Race?”

  
“How long a start do I get?” she demanded, having discovered long ago that he was as swift of foot as he was of mind. “From Convict?”

  
“Fair enough,” he said, seeing the zebra she had named. The beach was wide, he would catch up with her. “Go on.”

  
She trotted off to the placid, even-tempered creature, who acted more like an old pony than an independent mountain zebra. She looked back at her beautiful husband and dashed for the waves. He still somehow managed to overcome the intervening trees, brush and distance, plunging into the warm salt water at her shoulder. They swam for an hour, joined by dolphins and several of the cats, before calling it a day. Even as they entered the trees, a canoe came around the low headland and toward the reef, the Mori.

  
They washed away the salt in a small waterfall and pool, a spring where the animals drank. Donna was forced to chase a chimpanzee to get her left shoe back, but eventually they were again dressed in clothing, rather than their skin alone. Donna wore a halter top bra of blue cotton, a short sleeved shirt over it, of maroon embroidered in yellow. Grey cotton slacks and her old paddock boots completed her garb, practical for walking or riding. And altogether inconspicuous next to her husband.

  
The Phantom wore his traditional costume, tight fitting purple silk over his entire body. The material showed off his perfectly developed form with wide shoulders, enormous chest, flat belly, muscled thighs as bit as Donna’s torso. His dark hair was now concealed under a close fitting hood, his grey eyes behind a black mask, only his face and hands still showing skin and humanity. Black leather boots encased his calves, the left holding a knife, and a wide leather belt encircled his waist, supporting two holstered automatics. A slightly darker, thicker material made up a pair of over shorts, so that not everything about him was shown off to observers. Donna rather liked that, since his fabulous body was enough to set female hearts pounding, in her opinion, without advertising his other assets. The only decorations he wore were the silver rings and the silver belt buckle in the shape of a skull.

  
To evil men and criminals, those with guilt in their hearts, this towering form was menacing and fearful, his very presence inducing terror. Far out of proportion to even his strength and skills, those who preyed on others dreaded his very name, yet other folk had just the opposite reaction.

  
Donna herself had seen the respect and even love that most people of the vast jungles had for their Keeper of the Peace, their beloved Phantom. Those who kept the law, who simply wanted to live in peace, whether individual or tribe, found his appearance welcome, and even used his color, purple to indicate truce or peace. On their way to his home from the capital, they had been feasted and danced for, had flowers thrown at them, been sung to and even been given gifts, if they halted long enough. Donna’s only comparisons were with the Queen of England or the Pope on tours.

  
Even people she’d never heard of had sent gifts to their wedding, some even unknown to the local tribes. A trio of amazon warriors had traveled for a very long way to give her a gift, because they respected her husband. He insisted that it was she whom they respected, but he must be incorrect, a rare occurrence. She had only been in the country for a few weeks, not enough time to really acclimate, let alone earn anyone's respect.

  
After a fond farewell to the animals, the two climbed a tall tree next to one of the river branches that bordered the island. Beneath them lay a sluggish, piranha-infested expanse of fresh water, emptying into the lagoon. No one could enter or leave except by boat or the method they were about to employ. Across the narrow part of the north branch stretched two cables of thick rope. One slanted upward, one down, at steep angles, and the couple climbed to the top one on their side. A thick piece of steel, looking as if it might have been motorcycle handlebars at one time, sat tied to the thick tree trunk with a twist of vine.

  
“Do you want to ride on back or front?” the Phantom asked his agile wife, just below him. She followed on his heels in full confidence that he would not slip, full concentration on the task of climbing. Though strong and fit, trained in gymnastics and other sports, she had to work far harder than he to achieve this height. She had not been born and bred in these jungles, trained to such skills as soon as she could walk, and often her more civilized upbringing was some hindrance. But she was a quick learner, and her mistakes were now far fewer than they had been, though often more disastrous.

  
“Back,” she panted, chin even with his booted feet. “Gotta see where you’re going, right?”

  
“It’s nice to see that, but the important part here is not falling into the river, darling,” he reminded her, quite needlessly. A small demonstration with a fish carcass had given Donna a healthy fear of the voracious fish. Hardly even bones had been left. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  
Donna swung around to her husband’s back, knees tight around his waist, arms around his torso. He had the steel device hung across the hemp cable and held each curved end in one hand. When the blond admitted she was ready, he stepped from the limb he stood on and went sliding down the cable to the other side.

  
Donna closed her eyes and told herself that she was safe, he was with her, in her arms, and nothing could hurt her, but she didn’t let go until they came to their landing. The tree on the other side seemed far more friendly and safe than it really was to Donna, who wished there were another way to do this. A tightrope, perhaps, or being shot from a cannon. She knew, intellectually, that this was safer, but couldn’t convince her gut of it.

  
“You can let go now, dearest,” he told her with a chuckle. “We’re safe in a forty foot tree again. With wild, untamed animals all around us, remember. Don’t go scratching leopard chins out here, now.”

  
“Only hugging trees,” Donna assured him, wasting no time in heading for the ground. She didn’t know why that brief trip scared her, only that it did. Safe on the loamy earth of the jungle floor, she felt much better, even knowing that it contained hazards of every description. Undoubtedly some had her name on them, she being such a newcomer, but the presence of the Ghost Who Walks landing beside her went far to make her forget them, if not her caution.

  
“Come on, Donna,” he said, taking her hand. “This way. Wouldn’t want to spend the night in the spooky old jungle, would you?”

  
“Tease,” she said, smiling. “It wouldn’t bother me, as long as I have my own spook to keep me company.”

  
“Oh, you would, dear,” he told her fondly. They made their way down several narrow trails, Donna immediately lost, and were jumping across a narrow stream when there was a joyful bark. Fortunately for them both, they were well away from the bank before the wolf got to them.

  
A huge, grey wolf, his tongue lolling from his mouth, sharp teeth agleam, launched himself at them both, tumbling them on the marshy ground cover. Pale blue eyes shining icily in the gloom, the big dog wolf licked at both their faces, whining happily at them. Donna sighed, squinting as he slurped at her nose, and rolled over on her belly.

  
“Devil,” said the fallen giant, holding the wolf’s head back a little. “Did you miss us?”

  
“I think that should go without saying,” said Donna, brushing uselessly at the stains on her slacks. “Ah, well, no one would know it was me, if I were clean.”

  
“Donna, it’s the jungle,” said the purple Hercules, getting to his feet as the wolf romped around them. “If you’re not a little dirty, there’s something wrong with you. Stop worrying, you look beautiful, as usual. Do you suppose Devil’s been waiting for us all week?”

  
“Likely,” said the blond, petting the wolf in forgiveness. She thumped his sides as his jaw dropped in a canine grin. “He knew where we were, and he’s seen you go there before, yes? And he can take care of himself out here.”


	2. Chapter 2

“He certainly can,” agreed the Phantom, gesturing to the wolf to scout their path. Trained to help the big man in his work, the wolf knew commands of hand and voice, but was perfectly capable of using his own judgement. Instead of obeying the gesture, Devil barked a little yip and dashed briefly to their left, then stopped and whined to them.

  
“Well, Donna, you may be right about the horses,” the Phantom said, realizing that the wolf wanted them to follow. “Let’s follow Devil and see. Be a lot easier than walking, and safer.”

  
“Cleaner, too,” muttered the woman, carefully staying right behind her love, well aware that some of the trees and vines around them could be unpleasant if they were disturbed. Sap from this one would make you itch, the bark of that one hallucinate. Others were acidic or harbored inimical insects in their trunks or leaves. Used to the fairly tame vegetation of New Zealand, Donna was taking no chances on accidentally falling victim to the flora. It wasn’t really that all the plants were out to get you, she knew, it was just that she couldn’t really tell which ones, yet.

  
Only a few minutes after meeting the wolf, they walked into a small glade, possibly the origin of the stream they had crossed earlier. Here a wide grassy area lay in the sunlight, a sparkle showing the water course that lay through it. In the shade of several small, harmless trees stood four horses, all saddled and most haltered, grazing busily. Two people sat idly on a rock, their feet in the pool of the spring. Devil’s bark alerted them and the two leapt up to shout happily and wave at them. The biggest horse, a huge stallion of dazzling white, alone of the little herd unhaltered, threw up his head and bugled a cry of welcome. He trotted toward them, lifting his feet high in enthusiasm and good spirits. The bay horse he left behind watched for a few moments then called an equine question, his lead rope tied to a tree.

  
“Lady Donna, Lady Donna!” shouted the tiny girl by the spring, running toward the couple, hot on the stallion’s heels. The larger person, a young man in something like chaps and a loincloth, did not run to them, but went instead to the horses, and had them all bridled before the little group reached him. The big bay gelding, once bridled, followed the white, nickering at them as if asking for their names.

  
“Tim,” called the blond, the tiny girl in her arms, “did you miss me?”

  
The bay nodded his head and gave a little capering buck, swinging around so that his saddle was at her shoulder and his neck and head barred her way. She laughed and patted him, his desire that she ride him so plain as to be spoken aloud.

  
“In a minute, Tim,” she told him, the pixie sized black girl in her arms. “I promise.”

  
“I’m so happy you’re back, Lady Donna,” the tiny girl told the tall blond. Arms around the New Zealander’s neck, the girl was dressed in a miniature version of the Kiwi’s clothing, all in tan. No one seeing her would have taken her for a scion of one of the most feared tribes of the vast jungle, the Bandar, often called the Poison People. Such folk could be expected to live in a manner very like that of the Stone Age, and many did, but because they chose to, not because they had to. Zarala wore the clothes she did because she was around horses, and because her adored Lady Donna did.

  
Secretly, the pygmy girl had found the garb uncomfortable and annoying at first. But after several weeks of daily use, usually several hours at a time, she was beginning to appreciate it. It had made her feel much less parochial to discover that her heroine preferred less covering as well, but could not endure the sun as easily as her elfin friend. And the clothes were useful and practical when working with horses, which had always been Zarala’s heart’s desire.

  
A greater contrast between best friends of the same sex and species would have been hard to find, but the two were as one in their obsession with horses. Tall, fair and blondish, Donna had taken to the tiny black girl instantly, well aware of the problems a single horse mad girl could face in a group that was not so obsessed. Her own childhood, though her obsession had been indulged, had been frustrating at times. Her parents didn’t understand much of what she said or did, and hadn’t been all that interested, as long as she didn’t hurt herself. That, in fact, had been the same reaction that Zarala’s own mother had had when Donna promptly began the girl’s riding lessons.

  
Such understanding and willing alliance had turned Zarala into Donna McLaren’s most loyal adherent, willing to do anything for the kiwi and her horse. Now, only a month or so, since their first meeting, the tiny girl had her own pony and was well on her way toward a classical education in all things equine. And, to her mother’s pleasure, a renewed interest in other things, having found that her heroine had many other skills and talents.

  
“Where’s Cookie?” asked the New Zealander, setting the child back on her feet. “Ah, Tim, good boy, good boy. Hi, Toma. Thought you’d be back home by now.”

  
“I leave tomorrow, Lady Donna,” said the young man, one of only five people who could safely touch the white stallion. “I have been learning about dressage from Doctor Dorn, and jumping from Lady Heloise. I hope you do not mind that I borrowed your helmet.”

  
“If you were jumping, I’d mind if you didn’t,” laughed the woman, watching the young man slip the bit into Hero’s mouth. “I’m sure Zarala told you that!”

  
“Yes, she did,” smiled the young man shyly. “I was honored to wear it. Many of the Bandar told me the story of how it saved your life.”

  
“Don’t remind me,” sighed the Phantom, taking Hero’s reins from the smaller man. “Then you two have been out here for a week?”

  
“No, only yesterday and today,” Zarala assured him, now mounted on one of the two ponies, bulging bags on each flank behind her saddle holding the halters and leads. “Part conditioning, part waiting. We can be back to the Deep Woods before dark. We rode the horses out, the ponies back.”

  
“And Cookie?” asked Donna, checking on Tim’s girth and mounting her eagerly waiting horse. The two ponies, thoroughbreds from the polo fields, had been wedding gifts to Donna from her new sister-in-law, Heloise Walker. Before the wedding ceremony, Donna had solemnly entrusted the care of her entire small herd to the girl, knowing that they would be in good hands.

  
“He got wormed yesterday,” the girl said, sitting straight in her saddle, if not tall, exactly. She now wore her own helmet, fully aware of it’s protective value. The pony she rode stood calmly, one foot cocked up in the back, obviously not heavily burdened. He was the sorrel of the un-named pair, the seal brown apparently Toma’s mount.

  
“Giving him the day off?” said Donna from her towering bay. “I usually do that for Tim, too. Does that little gelding have a name yet?”

  
“I’ve been calling him Biscuit and the other Brownie,” Zarala told the little group as Toma mounted the seal brown mare. “Duncan said they were the right colors for that.”

  
“Good names,” agreed Donna, hoping that the three mares from New Zealand, not present, hadn’t ended up being called Pie, Cake and Mousse or something like that. “How do they behave?”

  
“They’re not like Cookie,” admitted the girl as the big white seemed to turn and choose a path on his own. The rest of the horses followed him willingly, with little urging by their riders. Tim’s responses to Donna were instant, and he was apt to add flourishes without request, such as the strutting piaffe he’d done before they had all begun moving. Devil ranged around them, tongue hanging out, happy to have his master back. “They’re quick. I fell off of Biscuit twice, just because he moved so fast when I asked. It was my fault, not his.”

  
“Polo ponies have very fast responses, if they’re good,” the kiwi agreed, remembering several that she’d ridden. “They will teach you to stay on, though. Do they jump?”

  
“Yes, they do,” said the tiny girl, looking up at the blond beside her, easy now that they were back in the forest. “Not smooth, like Tim, but like deer. Lady Heloise thinks they might be able to compete with a little training.”

  
“We’ll have to see,” Donna told her friend, “but that would be good. If they could compete, we might have you on the team, instead of grooming. Just remember, as far as I know, Heloise has never ridden in competition, and may not be accurate in her ideas of what such small horses can do. Ponies do compete, but I’ve never seen one at an international level.”

  
“I think she just meant at a show, not like you,” the pygmy girl assured her hastily. “You know, like in the books. I looked at the rules for the Olympics and I’ll be too young, anyway. But it would be fun to ride in a real horse show, Lady Donna.”

  
“It would be fun to take you, partner,” Donna told her, wondering if it was really feasible to take her tiny friend, a polo pony and some time and go to a show, say the big Auckland show in March next year, or the Hamilton show in June, or even the Canterbury show in November. Her own entry, and competition, for the Olympics, would be expensive enough, she thought. Perhaps there would be some smaller shows around the larger events she would have to ride in to qualify for the Games. “Is Heloise still here?”

  
“Yes, but she’s leaving tomorrow with your parents,” said Zarala, surprising the kiwi.

  
“My parents are still here?” exclaimed the woman in astonishment. “Whatever for? Surely Mummy has gone round the bend by now!”

  
“Your honored father says he could stay for a month,” the girl told her idol. “He plays with the dolphins every day and fishes with the Mori. And he tells wonderful stories, some about you.”

  
“Oh, no,” moaned Donn, embarrassed. “Not the Pony Club War story. I swear I didn’t start it, Zarala. Daddy wasn’t there, he doesn’t know. He only heard it from some of the other parents.”

  
“You can tell us all later,” the tiny girl told her tall friend. “He and your mother are flying out with Lady Heloise tomorrow because the Mori weather witch says a big storm is coming. The tribe is mostly back at the Deep Woods, only my mother, Konala and Danila are still at Keela Wee with your mother. Your mother is really good with food, they tell me, and she’s promised to send some cooking stuff to them.”

  
“The mind fairly boggles,” Donna muttered, amazed that her mother hadn’t gone to pieces over the primitive conditions of the temporary camp at the wedding site. She’d always found her mother overly civilized, ready to complain about maid service at hotels and waiters at restaurants. How was she surviving in a thatched hut on a tropical beach with not so much as a single electric light?

  
“You can see them off tomorrow, Lady Donna,” the girl assured her. “It’s a short ride from the Deep Woods, and you could ride Tim really fast, now that so many people have gone back and forth.”

  
“I’ll probably do that,” Donna told the tiny pygmy warrioress, who despite her age and size, had followed the blond into a battle with a large party of cannibals. “Are all the other horses fit, too?”

  
“Yes, Lady Donna,” said Zarala promptly. “But I haven’t ridden any of the thoroughbred mares yet. They look a little hot for me. Lady Heloise and Dr. Dorn have been riding them, along with Rifleman, at the beach.”

  
“Ah, it’s nice to know that my horses are being taken care of while I’m gone somewhere,” smiled Donna. “One of the reasons I never used to go on vacations. Now I feel like I’m always on vacation. But it’s nice to have help like you that I can rely on. So we’re going to the Deep Woods, not the beach?”

  
“Yes, Lady Donna,” agreed the pixie sized girl, having progressed in her riding skills to the point that she could watch other things than just her mount and the footing. “And you don’t want to be far from there for a while. The Mori weather witch, Falazi-lun, says it’s going to be a big storm, the first of fall. The Mori chief left yesterday after he delivered the news. Heloise called the Bakers and got them to come in tomorrow.”

  
“Are storms in the fall really bad?” asked Donna, not even having seen rain since arriving. “Lightning and thunder, Tangaroa tantrums?”

  
“Uh, what kind of tantrums?” asked the girl, confused. The Bandar all spoke an Americanized form of English with ease, but it was not their native tongue. Nor did Donna’s use of Maori words and Kiwi phrases help them understand her sometimes.

  
“Tangaroa, the male counterpart of Apakura,” Donna explained. “In the summer the sea god is Apakura, a female, while in the winter the sea god is male, Tangaroa, who is also a storm god. Don’t worry about it, Zarala, the Maori mythology and religion have always been intertwined and convoluted. I think they like it that way. Keeps the _pakeha_ anthropologists coming back for more.”

  
“Well, yes, that kind of storm, then,” the girl agreed. “Lots of rain, lots of thunder, but not enough to move to the storm caves. Time to think about it, though.”

  
“Storm caves?” asked Donna, aware that the cliffs around her home had many caves in them, but not aware of any other uses for them. “You all move indoors in the winter?”

  
“Sure, though the Bandar used to just make a really thick thatching and keep a fire going all the time,” the girl admitted. “Just like everyone else in the jungle during the monsoon season. Then, oh, a hundred years ago, or more, a family died in a fire and the Phantom decided to fix that. I think he tried building in stone, but the roof was still flammable. Then he decided that if he lived in a cave, maybe the Bandar could, too. But the Bandar didn’t like it in the dry season, so now we only live in caves when the monsoon comes. Each family has its own cave, since there are so many, some used for children to play in, some for washing, some for cooking. Even the horses have one, if they want to use it.”

  
“That sounds neat,” Donna told her friend, curious to see these winter homes. “Do you keep them closed up in the summer?” I don’t remember seeing them.”

  
“No, spring growth just kind of covers them up,” Zarala said, dropping back as the trail narrowed. “You’ll see them, Lady Donna, don’t worry!”

  
The four mounted humans, not really moving slowly, made good time toward their destination. Arriving before sunset, they were treated to a beautiful sight, lit by the glow of the reddened sky. A valley of lush, tropical growth and wide meadows lay before them, a small rivulet meandering through it. Near them were several horses, grazing peacefully, to whom the big bay Donna rode called greetings. At the farther end lay a cliff whose limestone face was naturally carved to resemble a human skull.

  
“Home,” said Donna in satisfaction, riding beside her fantastic husband, reveling in the very idea. “Home at last, darling. Do I get carried over the threshold? Or did you already do that?”

  
“I can always do it again, Donna,” he told her, his voice that caress of sound that told her he loved her more than his words. If he ever said the words in that voice, she thought she would probably melt, bones and all.

  
“Then what about dinner?” she asked, feeling a growling in her tummy. “I know what’ll happen once we get inside, Kit. And I think you need to keep up your strength. A solid week of rice and pasta out of packages can’t be healthy for someone like you.”

  
“It wasn’t only Rice-a-roni and mac and cheese,” he protested mildly. “We had fish and fruit, too. Why? Were you tired of it?”

  
“Actually, no, not quite,” Donna admitted truthfully, having grown quite fond of the American packaged foods. “But surely someone like you needs a little red meat now and then. One way or another, you burn up a lot of energy.”

  
“I smell meat cooking,” volunteered Zarala, trying to be helpful. “I know Tula’s been experimenting with the cookies. So far, they haven’t quite turned out like yours, Lady Donna.”

  
“Better?” asked Donna, over her shoulder as they rode through the village of pole and thatch huts, shouting children all around them. Adults waved and smiled at them, going on about their work, but cheerful and happy. The Bandar had a reputation outside the Deep Woods as deadly, implacable foes, as humorless and efficient as a cobra. Inside their territory, particularly with their great friend at home, they were happy, cheerful folk, able to make even the most mundane task into a game.

  
“Not really,” giggled the tiny girl as they dismounted by the big paddock. “Uncle Rumal’s came out alright, but Tula hasn’t got the right touch, yet. Even Tim won’t eat hers!”

  
“Ooh,” agreed Donna, knowing how the gelding loved bread of any kind.”That must have been pretty burnt. What’s she been using to cook them in?”

  
“I’m not sure,” said the pygmy girl, efficiently unsaddling the sorrel gelding she’d ridden. The little horse rubbed his face carefully on her back while she hung up the saddle, begging for her attention but not hurting her. She took off the bridle and rubbed the white face with her hands, then sent the pony off to eat, the little herd soon joined by Hero, Tim and Brownie.


	3. Chapter 3

Everyone carried their own horse gear up to the gaping mouth of the Skull Cave, carefully racking it where it could later be cleaned. Zarala loved to do that, having become quite an expert in leather care, taking pains that Donna’s saddles and bridles always looked perfect. She was fully prepared, or would be in three years time, to be the chief groom and chef d'equipe for Donna Walker at the Montreal Olympics.

  
“Come to dinner, o Ghost Who Walks,” said a stout, short man in a palm leaf hat as they finished. In spite of the lamp shade appearance, the hat actually indicated the man’s rank, for he was Chief Guran, Zarala’s uncle. “And bring your wife! Ah, it is so pleasant to finally say that!”

  
“Isn’t it?” agreed the huge man, grinning at the blond, as he took her arm in the torch-lit cavern. “Let’s go eat, Mrs. Walker.”

  
“I hear and obey, husband,” giggled Donna, playing along. “At least for now. Oh, my goodness, is that a whole buffalo?”

  
“Yes,” said the Chief proudly. “It took eight hunters to get it back here, and eight more relieving them. But it had to be killed, it was chasing other animals and killing them. Soon it would have started after Bandar or horses.”

  
“Well, I’ll eat it in good conscience, then,” Donna declared, sitting at the foot of the white Skull Throne, a carven chair of solid rock, decorated with skulls. The feast, not terribly elaborate, as the Bandar hadn’t really known when they would return, was pleasant and filling, like coming home should be, Donna reflected. They were informed of all the post wedding news, some of the Bandar going so far as to act out the circumstances. Duncan McLeod had gone off with the photographer, Jean Dumont, back to the capitol, and the Frenchman’s darkroom, promising to return with pictures. The Chiefs had all gone home, well satisfied and pleased at their old friend’s choice of wife. The big Texan, Alex Blaise, the Jungle Patrol Colonel and Donna’s old professor, Dr. Archer, had all flown out with Sam Baker in his seaplane, the Texan vowing to find mares worthy of the mighty Hero. Donna found the part about Lt. Shunji Hayakawa and Mandy Baker declaring their engagement very interesting indeed, since she was rather a part of their pairing. At last, they all felt the need for their beds, no matter what activities were planned for them, and bade each other good night. Donna felt content, happy, as if all were right with the world.

  
Their first night in bed as a married couple was every bit as pleasant as any other, and after several hours, tired and sated, the pair slept. Donna had odd dreams, but nothing she could recall on awakening. Instead, after dressing in preparation for breakfast, the blond felt uneasy, as if she had eaten some sort of food that disagreed with her. Hastily, she calculated days from her last period, just about when she’d been injured. Uh,oh, she said to herself, realizing what was probably happening. Well, she’d asked for it.

  
“Darling,” she said to her husband, as he was settling his automatics in their holsters, “is your father around, do you think? I mean, do you see him?”

  
“Nope,” replied the giant, turning to look around the empty room. “Why?”

  
“I just thought he might want to know that he may soon be a grandfather,” Donna said, fighting back another wave of stomach queasiness. “Unless I’ve got the flu again, I suppose.”

  
“Grand…? Donna, you’re pregnant?” he exclaimed, shock giving way to joy in his voice. He put out a hand to her face as if she were made of gossamer, afraid she would bruise at his touch. “You’re certain? Do you need to lie down, shall I get Muzi?”

  
“I may be pregnant,” Donna corrected him, a little annoyed. “‘I’m not certain, no, so Muzi might be a good idea. But I just got up, Kit, so why would I lay down? Don’t worry, I won’t break.”

  
At these words he gathered her up in his arms, carefully, and held her close, stroking her hair as her head lay against his shoulder. She smiled as he held her, and felt her stomach calm a little. She hoped she wouldn’t be one of those women who threw up all day long, it was so annoying to do that. He suddenly sat her on the edge of the bed and stared deeply into her eyes, looking for anything he could identify as need.

  
“You stay here, darling,” he said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “I’ll go get Muzi, and your breakfast. What do you want?”

  
“Nothing right now, Kit,” she confessed. “I feel sort of unsettled. Eating would be a mistake right now, I’m pretty sure.”

  
“Oh,” he looked worried for a moment, then kissed her briefly and was gone. She felt her belly out of curiosity, but nothing seemed different. Then there was a sharply-felt sensation of someone beside her, rather like a friend. She looked, and saw a sort of shimmer in the air, which was more than she usually managed. She was not surprised, and certainly not afraid, even though this was the spirit of her husband’s dead father.

  
“Good morning, Grandfather Walker,” she said with a sly grin. “All I can see is a glimmer, but I know it’s you. Hang around and find out for certain, why don’t you?”

  
The shimmer was still there when Muzi hurried into the room, beads clicking on the fringe of her dress. Behind her loomed the dark figure of the Phantom, looking curiously nervous. He started slightly as he looked at her, for he saw his father’s ghost with perfect clarity, and always had. It was a measure of his case of nerves, thought Donna, that he’d made any sign of recognition of the ghost at all.

  
After a series of questions, and a short examination, the pygmy midwife, expert in all things related to childbirth, declared Donna to be almost certainly pregnant. This would surprise no one of the tribe, who regarded their big friend as having been extraordinarily self-controlled for waiting so long. Among the Bandar, her husband’s line was thought to be prepotent enough that actual sex might not be necessary. Knowing that the two of them had been sexually active for over a month, some had wondered why she wasn’t yet gravid.

  
“What should she do differently?” asked the anxious father-to-be, who found nothing odd in taking advice from a woman twice his age and half his height. “Less exercise, more? Some kind of vitamins, what?”

  
“Oh, nothing different at first,” the midwife assured him, patting him on his arm. “She’ll probably do very well just as she is for a while. You may, dear, find certain foods more appealing than others, for a bit, a normal reaction. It is only your body telling you that it needs more of certain elements to properly build the child. When you feel like doing something, go ahead, when you feel as if you shouldn’t, don’t. It’s really very simple, you see.”

  
“Thank you, Muzi,” said the kiwi, rather relieved. “I guess I’ll go see what’s for breakfast, then, and saddle Tim. Do you want Hero saddled, too, Kit?”

  
“What?” he said, as if he’d been thinking something else entirely. “Why?”

  
“Heloise, my parents, the Beach, the airplane out to Mawitaan,” she reminded him, wondering if he had been talking, or listening to his ghostly father, or lost in the idea of fatherhood. “Don’t you want to come?”

  
“Oh, yes, of course, darling,: he said, giving himself a little shake. “I’ll go saddle the horses, you find out what you want to eat and we’ll go get it for you. Won’t your parents be pleased.”

  
“I daresay they weren’t thinking it would be quite so soon,” Donna said with a grin, as he took her hand to help her to her feet. “I hope I don’t feel like this every morning. I despise wasting good food, no matter how long I’ve had it in my possession.”

  
“Ever the practical Scot, darling,” he said, kissing her carefully. She resolved to break him of that habit the next time she got him alone, perhaps that very evening. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, now, you can’t help that sort of thing anymore than if you did have the flu.”

  
“Hmmph. I think I have a taste for mangos,” she said to herself as they walked out of their bedroom and toward the daylight. “It’s a bit odd, but I’d swear I felt like pasta for a moment there. Not breakfast food, and surely all those long noodles would make me queasy again just looking at them.”

  
“Mangos and spaghetti?” he said, a little nonplussed. “That is an odd combination, Donna. I’ll see what can be done about the pasta, but mangos are easy.”

  
“Don’t try to understand it,” advised Muzi from behind them. ”It often happens so. Indulge yourself when you can. We certainly will!”

  
“Oh, Muzi,” said Donna, suddenly a little embarrassed. “Please don’t go to any trouble for me. It’s not like I’ve done anything new, you know.”

  
“You can beg all you want, Lady Donna,” chuckled the older woman as she parted ways with the pair of lovers. “It will do you no good. By tomorrow morning we will have found a way to make ‘pasta’, whatever it may be.”

  
“Oh, hell,” sighed the blond. “Come on, let’s get saddled up before I put my foot in my mouth again. Oh, someone’s beat me to it, seems like.”

  
“Toma and Zarala,” agreed her husband, hearing excited comments behind them as Muzi spread the word. “Even have your weapons ready, I see.”

  
The stallion and Tim stood ready, a saber cased on the gelding’s near side. The two hostlers had their horses ready as well, the tiny girl on her own pony, Cookie, and Toma on the sorrel Biscuit. Donna checked her girth and vaulted into her saddle, winking to her tiny squire, who handed her the Wambesi-made spear. Her beloved husband was hardly slower, mounting with that beautiful twist of his body that Donna so admired.

  
“Let’s go, before anything else happens,” said the kiwi, turning Tim for the trail she knew led to the lagoon. “I’d rather skip breakfast, if it’s all the same to you.”

  
“It’s not,” the Phantom told her sternly. “Come to the orchard first, Donna. We have plenty of time to get to Keela Wee.”

  
“Why are you in such a hurry, Lady Donna?” asked the pygmy girl as they followed the white stallion and his rider toward the wall of greenery that crossed the valley ahead of them. “Did something happen?”

  
“Uh, I guess so,” admitted the New Zealander. “I’m going to have a baby, partner. I want to get going so no one can decide I can’t ride anymore.”

  
“A baby!” exclaimed the Bandar girl, finding her own emotions mixed at this news. “They can’t make you stop riding, can they?”

  
“No, they can’t,” Donna said firmly, vowing to herself to stick to that. “A friend of mine had to stop riding, you see, and was miserable, of course. I don’t mean to stop until I have to, like at six months, when I get fat.”

  
The tiny girl was somewhat reassured, promising herself to be tolerant, and not ask anything of the white horsewoman that might prove taxing later. On one side of the equation, this was exactly what the Bandar, and many others, had been in hopes of, a child to continue the Phantom Line. And Zarala could not be upset by such a thing, for that was important. Yet, on the other side, it would be a lot of time the New Zealander could not be on a horse, and practice time lost might count when the Olympic Trials came around. Not to mention Zarala’s own lesson program, although perhaps that could continue from the ground, she thought with some hope.

  
And, the tiny girl told herself, it would be fun, eventually, to teach the child to ride. Surely, the child of Lady Donna and the Phantom would be riding almost before it could stand. She would have to have the pinto she rode ready for such an important responsibility, and make him ‘child proof’, as Lady Donna had put it.

  
After picking and eating mangos, and other fruits, in the Orchard, the four riders turned their horses toward the trail to Keela Wee Beach. Donna had no further difficulty with her insides, and enjoyed the ride. Near the end of their journey, taking her opportunity to speak with her silent husband, Donna rode up beside him on the widened trail. The other two, Toma and Zarala dropped back out of easy earshot, politely allowing them their privacy.

  
“And what did your father say to you?” asked Donna of her herculean husband. “I know he was there, although I only saw a sort of blurring. I haven’t even felt him since the wedding, like he tired himself out letting me see him then.”

  
“Oh, he was delighted,” the masked giant assured her, wondering if she was straining herself in any way. He was all too aware of how his wife would feel about her eventual loss of her riding ability and freedom. Yet he had hopes that she would have sense enough not to endanger their child. A child, his child, he thought, savoring the idea. A son to continue the Line, or a daughter to be like her, he wondered, and found himself with not the slightest preference for his own sake. A son would be more welcome by the Bandar, and would be nice, traditional, and a safe bet, by family history.

  
“Kit, how am I going to be a mother and still compete in the Games as the Atuamoanas want?” asked his wife, wondering about feeding schedules, training rides and time away from the Deep Woods. “Babies are hell on a woman anyway, let alone one with an Olympic dream.”

  
“We’ll get some nurses,” he told her easily, knowing that Jula and Muzi were probably reviewing candidates at that very moment. The entire tribe had been present when the sea goddess Apakura has spoken through the blond about the terrorist attack to take place in Montreal. Even such sophisticated folk as the educated Bandar knew better than to oppose a deity, however minor, and would assist whatever way they could. The promise that no harm would come to Donna or her friends from that same deity, did much to reassure the tribe, if not Donna herself.

  
“Other people to take care of my baby? Our baby?” said Donna doubtfully, “I don’t know, darling. It doesn’t seem right, somehow. Shouldn’t a mother raise her children?”

  
“My parents were away a lot,” recalled the Phantom, “but they always came back, and we were always glad to see them. What else could they do, after all? It would have been madness to take us with them, we got into plenty of trouble on our own, whether or not they were here.”

  
“Hmm, I wonder if I would have grown up more or less like my mother with a nanny?” mused Donna, recalling her childhood. It has been an eternal struggle against conformity as imposed by her mother, and had more than once been acrimonious. “Maybe your way is better. At least I’ll have a better chance to not become my mother. Probably.”

  
“Donna, there’s no doubt you are your own person,” laughed her husband. “No matter what your parents, teachers, assorted tribes, spirits and even gods try to do to change that. How many people can say so? I think that if you weren’t so individual, so independent, all those things wouldn’t be so drawn to you. Nor would I, perhaps. I like the way you turned out.”

  
“You do, do you?” said the blond, smiling up at him. “Even when I go do something stupid, or might have some Maori spirit along for the ride while we make love?”

  
“What?” he said, startled. “No, Donna, you’re just kidding, right? I don’t want to have some voyeur of a goddess inside you anymore than you want Dad watching.”

  
“I don’t think she’d do that,” admitted Donna, thinking about it. “But I do have a sort of idea that she’s around. Close, you see, like she’s keeping an eye on me. Alright with me, if she’s quiet, and if she doesn’t, uh, interrupt or that sort of thing. You tell me, Kit, if my eyes turn green, right?”

  
“She’s more likely in that amulet,” he theorized, meaning the greenstone _tiki_ around her throat. “You could try taking it off, see if the feeling goes away.”

  
“I don’t like that idea, somehow,” his wife told him, her left hand, braceleted with jade and gold, stroking the _heitiki_. “I think I’ll wait until there’s a better reason than mere speculation. Don’t want to make her mad, you know. Might cause a spot of bother with me in foal, as it were. Letting me throw up every morning for the entire nine months, for instance, if she were a bit annoyed. Wouldn’t hurt me, but it’d be dire.”

  
“Well, if I’ve got Dad,” he said reluctantly, “I suppose you can have her. I do hope she decides to keep you from feeling ill, rather than the other. If she’s ‘inside’ you, the atuamoana won’t like the feeling either. Be useful to have a goddess look after your baby’s health.”

  
“She’s not that kind of spirit,” protested Donna, wondering if they were doing anything other than speculating. After all, who could say what a god or spirit or ghost would do? She still wasn’t really sure how much she really believed in those things, all proof aside. “A goddess of vengeance for the dead is not exactly fairy godmother material. Ooh, I don’t believe I said that. Maybe she would be.”

  
“Aboma’s children were all supposed to have their own personal guardian spirits,” her towering husband said thoughtfully. “And perhaps the original, pagan versions of european fairy tales started out the same way. Djinn, or genies, are often the Afro-asian version, too. Not a bad thing, taken with the right attitude. That is, not relied on, to any extent. Any good fairy tale shows you that a guardian only helps if the hero is completely out of options. Used like a new toy, the genie either tires of the game, or is freed by his service. Classic moral, usually, that of self reliance.”

  
“No more,” begged Donna, half afraid her spirit guardian would be offended, but also having lost track of her husband’s line of reasoning. “Later, anyway, darling. We’re almost to the beach. Do we tell the gang and then load them into the plane while they’re unconscious, or not tell them? It’ll be easier to get rid of my parents if they don’t know that I’m doing my womanly duty.”

  
“Oh, tell them, Donna,” urged the Phantom. “Or let me. How could you not tell them they’re going to be grandparents? They’re going to find out, eventually, aren’t they?”

  
“I guess,” she said in reluctant agreement. “I can’t seem to think straight, or find an even keel, emotionally. I need to ride Tim and concentrate on that. It’s always worked before, like zen riding, sort of. You tell them, Kit. After all, you’re the father, and at least half responsible.”

  
“I certainly hope so,” he told her fondly, as they came to the end of the wide pathway. Hero and Tim had to stop moving side by side, but the way had been temporarily cleared by human activity. In weeks, Donna thought, it would seem as it had when first she had seen it, overgrown and deserted, the jungle wall impenetrable. Now, though most of the temporary shelters that had made up a small village for their wedding were gone, some still remained, as did a few people. Also on the grassy lawn were four horses, grazing calmly, and they rode toward the small herd and stopped. Donna noted that the big roan gelding seemed much fitter than when she had seen him last.


	4. Chapter 4

As they unsaddled their horses, confident that Tim and Hero would keep the group together, voices hailed them, coming from the little village. A tall woman in a grey version of the Phantom’s costume, though unmasked, strode toward them, the same tigerish stride and athletic grace to her movements. Behind her, nowhere near as impressive, came two white men and an older woman, Donna’s parents and the German doctor, Gunther Dorn. Trotting to keep up with the longer legs of the rest, were Jula, Konala and Danila, the headwoman and her assistants of the Bandar tribe. Jula was Zarala’s mother, sister to chief Guran, and a talented clothing designer, as well as ‘mother’ to both the Phantom and his bride, in all but name.

  
“I didn’t expect to see you for another week or so, little brother,” said the woman in grey, who was known to friends and enemies alike, behind her back, as the Rakshasa, the Demon. She was the owner of the security firm Altair, Inc., which employed agents, spies and even thieves among its operatives. All had come to realize that she was their superior in more than name, for she was also the Phantom’s twin sister, trained as he had been. Donna expected that Heloise would have some pressing business back in Singapore, her headquarters, and was flattered the statuesque brunette had stayed so long.

  
“Considering the news I got this morning, I think our timing was perfect, Heloise,” the masked giant replied a little smugly.

  
“You mean about the storm?” asked Heloise, knowing as she said it, that that was not it. Exuberantly, the Phantom picked up his wife in his arms and kissed her, handling her long-limbed, solid-muscled body as if she had been a toddler. Donna kissed him back as if they were as alone as they had been on the Isle of Eden, giggling as he swung her around in a brief circle.

  
“No”, he told his sister, finally, as the others had gathered around them. “Good morning, Doctorr, Jula, Konala, Danila. And congratulations, Mr and Mrs McLaren. You are about to become grandparents.”

  
“We are?” said Rose McLaren, having come to a sort of acceptance of her new son-in-law’s strange life. It was still difficult for her to accept the mask and costume, but she was coping by ignoring it. She had privately confided to her husband that she thought his purple silk indecent. Her daughter’s husband was the next thing to naked in such garb, even now making her blush at his perfectly made body.

  
“Donna, you’re going to have a baby?” exclaimed Geoffrey McLaren, excited and pleased, having come to a much more positive opinion about his new son-in-law than his wife. The costume and strange customs of the Phantom and his people mattered less to the New Zealander than that his little girl was happy. And she was obviously happy, laying still in those strong arms, trusting and smiling at her grinning mate. “That was fast. When?”

  
“Nine months, more or less,” she said dreamily, only vaguely aware of the Bandar women and the German doctor/vet adding their congratulations. “We only found out this morning.”

  
“Fast work indeed, my boy,” chuckled the older man, remembering his first indication of Donna’s birth. “Can’t often say that I’ve come to a wedding and left with a birth announcement. Drat, I hear the airplane coming. Now, Baker Air is on schedule.”

  
“Daddy, Mummy, will you come back to visit?” asked the blond, as her husband set her gently on her feet without letting go of her. “I mean, have you had a good time, did you like everyone?”

  
“Oh, I think you’ll see us again,” her father assured her with a huge grin. “Have to see our grandchild, what? Grandparents, Rose, we get to be grandparents!”

  
“We had a lovely time, dear,” Rose McLaren admitted to her daughter, surprised to fine that it was so, even as she said it. “Everyone was very nice. I’m going to send some things to Jula, if I can figure out your mail system, or else we’ll bring them next time we come. After the rainy season, I suppose.”

  
“You will be welcome,” Jula told the older couple, as they watched the seaplane land inside the reef. No dolphins dodged its pontoons, as they were outside the reef, feeding. “Always, you will be welcome to my home, and our hearts.”

  
“Don’t tell anyone about the baby, yet, Mummy,” Donna asked, seeing the seaplane taxi onto the beach with expert navigation. “It could just be a touch of flu, you know, or something I ate.”

  
“You just don’t want Mandy to feel jealous,” the Phantom told her perceptively. “Darling, she’s not even married, yet. And she’s likely to kill off poor Hayakawa before they are. I can’t see marriage mellowing _her_ very much.”

  
“Hmmph, there are a lot of things we won’t be telling the folk back in Papakura,” Geoffrey McLaren said with a grin. “But I am going to tell George Tekanawa that I’ve crewed a war canoe! He’s never let me forget that he paddles for the Bay of Islands Whare. Ah, it’s Sam come for us, not his little girl. Must be busy with her fiance, eh?”

  
“Where is your luggage?” asked Donna, seeing a few bags even as she asked. “And how soon is the storm supposed to get here? Does anyone know?”

  
“It’ll be here tomorrow night, according to the Mori weather witch,” Heloise told the blond, while the entire group moved what little luggage they had to the seaplane. “Plenty of time to clear Mawitaan, in either commercial or private flights. Your parents are booked on Air New Zealand tonight, Donna, and I’ve got my plane waiting for me, too. Don’t worry., we won’t get caught in it.”

  
Shortly, after some overly teary goodbyes from her parents, Donna waved farewell to them, the seaplane taking off in a sparkle of spray. The remaining shelters were scattered, the fire pits filled and the cooking pots readied for transport. Donna found her appetite had returned with a vengeance, and did her duty by a half bunch of bananas and several tangerines. She didn’t even notice Zarala’s whispered conversation with her mother as they ate, then saddled the horses.

  
Donna refused to allow the three pygmy women to walk back through the jungle, insisting that they could easily ride, as there were so many horses that had to go back as well. The three Bandar matrons were not sanguine about the idea, but were finally convinced, as Donna promised not to go fast. Accordingly, Donna rode Tim, with Danila holding tightly to her waist. Konala rode in front of Dr. Dorn on Rifleman, the big German keeping up a cheerful, one-sided conversation the entire trip. Jula rode with her daughter on the well-behaved Cookie, finding herself impressed with her youngest child’s skill. Toma on the polo mare and the Phantom on Hero bracketed the group, which included the three thoroughbred mares. Unwilling to lose sight of the other horses, the three kept in the middle of the pack, although Donna confided to the horrified Danila that she would ride the chestnut and lead the black and grey horses if there was difficulty. Danila had no desire to ride Tim by herself, and silently petitioned the spirits to keep things smooth. Her prayers were seemingly answered, as all arrived in the Deep Woods without incident. Jula found herself with greater appreciation of her daughters’ obsession, both Zarala and Donna. Donna’s offer to Danila of a faster ride was politely, if hastily, declined.

  
“Well, if you change your mind,” the blond told the three matrons, “I’m sure Cookie will be ready to give lessons on, if not quite yet, soon.”

  
“Lady Donna,” groaned Jula as she took the cooking pots from the pinto’s back, “if I had been meant to ride, surely I would not be so sore now.”

  
“Just muscles you don’t use so often,” the kiwi assured her. “Do this a few more times, you’ll never notice it. After all, we were only walking.”

  
“As I intend to keep doing,” the headwoman told her firmly. “By tomorrow I will likely wish I _had_ walked and been carried off by a tiger!”

  
“It won’t be that bad,” the German told her with some sympathy. “You are not so old as that, Jula. Ach, I had the same thought when I began to ride the horses at the beach, but it was not so bad. You and I, we are of an age, jah? Surely you are tougher and in better condition than I.”

  
Jula grumbled, but looked appeased, taking the cooking equipment and her cronies, walking carefully into the village. Excited comment, whispered and open, flowed throughout the village, engulfing the newly returned as a wave on the shore. Donna hoped no one was really trying to make pasta, as it was a rather involved process, she thought. Surely, they would not go so far as all that, simply on a whim she wasn’t even sure of.


	5. Chapter 5

That night there was a small feast, well attended, in spite of the fairly short notice. Several exotic foods made appearances, as it seemed the American cook book had made the rounds. Even though they were given the names from the book, Donna was certain that Americans would hardly have recognized some of the foods, since substitutions had been the rule. Everyone was in a celebratory mood, completely belieing the Bandar reputation outside the Deep Woods.

  
Donna’s only complaint of the night was the even more careful treatment her husband gave her, as if fearful he might harm their unborn child. Donna fixed that problem by taking control herself, showing him what she could do and desired. Nothing much different than usual, if perhaps a bit more vigorous.

  
“It won’t even show to the naked eye, yet,” she insisted, laying sated and tired across his body, still astride him like a hard ridden mount. “How could you hurt that? It’s only later on, oh, the last three months, I think, that you could possibly hurt it. Besides, I need to make sure, and if I’m not pregnant, you know how to fix that, love. Like the mare and the stallion, put him to her every day, at least until she tries to kick him off. And I’ll never do that to you, Kit. Might damage something important, after all. One of my favorite parts, really, after your mind, your heart, your, ooh, hands and, mmmm, mouth.”

  
“Donna, sometimes you can be positively self-destructive,” he told her the next morning, after she had thrown up several times, the constant flow of water through the basin quickly clearing it. “How do women ever decide to have another child after nine months of this?”

  
“Please, don’t even think that, Kit,” she moaned, white beneath her growing tan. “It’s only supposed to last a little while. Weeks if I’m lucky, months, if I’m not. Other joys will make themselves felt soon enough, I’ve heard.”

  
“Donna, don’t stand up until you feel better,” he asked her, concerned. “Maybe you shouldn’t ride this morning. Stay in bed if you feel bad. Zarala will understand, I’m sure.”

  
“No she won’t,” said the kiwi, with a faint smile. “I’m feeling better now, really. Why do you think horse obsessed folk, like me, are so masochistic, anyway? I know people who ride with broken bones, dislocated shoulders, concussions, even. We ride because the horse, and a lot of other people, wouldn’t understand if we didn’t.”

  
“I think I’m rather looking forward to you giving up riding, at least temporarily,” he sighed as she straightened her back and walked back into the bedroom to dress. Her color did seem to be improving, he was relieved to note. "And I’m coming to have a new sympathy for mothers, mine and others.”

  
“Hah!” she said, pulling on her slacks, tan cotton, a color he hated on her. She insisted that it showed less dirt than white, yet was cooler than the colors he liked her in. “Just wait ‘til the really bad stuff happens. You’ll want a good excuse to be gone, darling. Mood swings, food binges, swelling, cramps, nausea, even before the birth. You’ll be glad I’m tough, by then.”

  
“I just wish that you didn’t have to be tough,” he told her, pulling on his boots. “It irks me that I can’t do anything to help you. You, of all people, I should be able to make safe, happy, healthy, and yet, because of me, there you are, looking as if you’d just got the flu or jungle fever or the plague.”

  
“Oh, didn’t I have any say in this little episode?” asked Donna, shaking her finger at him with mocking eyes. “I still have three months of birth control pills, Kit, and you know when I stopped taking them. I could have waited, you know, but I didn’t want to, so blame me if you blame anyone. Although, I will admit, you were a little bit responsible. Do I really look that bad?”

  
“Not now, no,” he admitted, watching her pull on her cotton blouse over the bright halter that served as a bra. “Your color is better and you don’t look as if you might fall over at any moment. Do you really feel any better, or are you just acting?”

  
“I feel fine, except for a slight headache, dear,” she told him, putting on her shoes. “And as we’re supposed to have a storm tonight, it might be from the weather. I often have a headache before storms and such. Nothing to do with my condition, I swear.”

  
“Alright, Donna,” he said with manifest reluctance. “But if it gets worse, you need to tell me, okay? No heroics, no working through the pain, you promise?”

  
“Yes, dear,” she told him, kissing him fondly. “Just be a love and don’t worry so. Women have done this for hundreds of thousands of years. I’ll be fine. Come on, now I’m hungry.”

  
“For what?” asked the masked giant, still not entirely convinced.

  
“Can’t say, yet,” she admitted thoughtfully, taking his arm as they exited the Cave. “Maybe more of that Kraft dinner stuff, maybe liver. Odd, I’ve never liked liver.”

  
In spite of Donna’s capricious appetite, consulted over and catered to by virtually every Bandar in the area, eventually they got to Zarala’s lesson. Progress had been made in the week Donna had been gone, for both Gunther Dorn, a dressage student in his younger days, and Heloise, had been teaching the tiny girl. And her friend, Toma, it seemed, who would reluctantly leave his beloved Hero today for home.

  
“On foot?” asked Donna, knowing how long that might take. “With a storm coming? Is that safe?”

  
“Just wet,” shrugged the young man with a smile. “Now I do not care if I am wet. Before, I worried about the saddle, the leather, if it would be safe. I will dry out, get home, tell my family wonderful tales of the wedding. Everyone in the district will bring me meat, just to hear the story. And I will find out who rides in Bengalla.”

  
“Maybe you should take Brownie or Biscuit, Toma,” worried Donna, not reassured. She would not have wanted to cross so much territory on foot, in bad weather. “Kit could bring them back next time. That way you’d have a horse, even if it was a little small for you.”

  
“Oh, no, Lady Donna,” the young man said, horrified, though flattered. “A horse might be hurt, get scared, run away, terrible things! I can get home quite well, and more easy of mind without one of your horses to be worried over. And I will send word of any horse shows or contests, should there be any. Other than the racing, of course.”

  
“Oh, that would be fun,” Donna said happily, diverted from the vision of Toma, slogging through cold, wet, rainforest, stalked by unseen predators, as the slight black man had intended. “If there is one, we’ll bring you a horse to ride, too.”

  
“I shall no doubt fall off,” laughed the young man, his afro-brit accent strong. “You will be welcome in my house, Lady Donna, and you also, Zarala, as well as all your horses. Good bye.”

  
“Goodbye, Toma,” said Donna, feeling the same sense of bereavement as when her parents had flown off. “I’m sure you’ll see us, or some of us, later. Good journey.”

  
“He’s very nice,” Zarala told her role model later, as they swam away the hottest part of the day. It was particularly sultry, presaging the evening storm. “I think he’s a real horse person, don’t you?”

  
“Toma?” said Donna, having worked the black and the grey that morning. “He is, indeed. We may find him as your assistant in Montreal, partner. If Heloise goes, she’ll need a groom, won’t she?”

  
“Or the Ghost Who Walks,” added the elfin girl, her mind wandering back to her afternoon surprise. All the village was anticipating the event, and Zarala was one of the prime motivators. “Lady Donna, you know, you need some practice jumps, don’t you? Cross country ones?”

  
“Well, I suppose,” admitted Donna, wondering how Rifleman was going to be. The big roan was an eventer, but the blond had not yet ridden him. “But we have that log drop near the orchard, and the ditch. We can make more later, when the Olympics get a bit closer.”

  
“Come and see what I found,” the tiny girl urged, while Donna dressed in her blue and white sarong. She had almost mastered it, she felt. “I think it might be a good jump. We can try it, can’t we?”

  
When Donna got to her tiny friend, who had scampered ahead of her, she found the first of a series of elaborate cross-country style fences. Secretly, for over two weeks, parts of the tribe, mostly children, had labored to build a course for Donna and her horse, Tim. Using pictures from books, Donna’s own explanations, and a few suggestions from Dr. Dorn, Heloise and the Phantom, as well as their own particular genius, they had built a unique set of obstacles. Many of the tribe, their pre-storm preparations finished, had been laying in wait to see how their gift would be received.

  
Donna, in great anticipation herself, walked the course three times, pacing distances, examining footing, eyeing turns. She noted that most of the jumps, while they could be made higher, were not seriously difficult. Safe, challenging, yet reasonable, the course fairly cried out to her to tackle it.

  
“Okay, who should I ride it on?” she asked her eager friends, mostly the children who’d help make the jumps. Adults had each picked out a favorite fence, and were awaiting Donna’s test of the course with a kind of horrified fascination. The children could tell Donna how each place had been built, and who had designed and helped build it.

  
“Tim!” shouted the children excitedly, for he was their favorite horse, many certain that he was an enchanted prince or something equally fanciful. That he loved his rider was obvious to all, and that made the children only like him more. “Ride Tim!”

  
“Okay,” she agreed, wondering if Rifleman was up to this level of cross-country yet. “Are you going to time me?”

  
“There’s only you to jump them,” said Jokan, his eyes wide. “How will you know if you’re going fast or slow?”

  
“Oh, we’ll do the course, too,” said the Phantom, his voice startling a few. “If Hero and I are allowed to try out your present, darling. I’ve seen it, so I know how it goes. Maybe you can ride Tim first, then try Rifleman after Hero.”

  
“Does anyone here have a stopwatch?” asked Donna hurrying towards the horses. “I have one in my tack trunk, I think. Jokan, where will we put the start and finish?”

  
Shortly, with Dr. Dorn warming up the big roan, Donna carefully stretched Tim out, making sure he was ready for his display. He was aware that his rider was excited, and when he was standing still, and hearing her count down, he began to dance, realizing what was coming. At the word ‘go,’ he lunged forward, untouched by her heels, his ears pricked as he searched for the jump, eager and powerful.

  
Donna found that the ground was a little deep, slowing them a little, but not a serious problem. It would make the gelding work harder, but shouldn’t strain him, though the rain would probably close the course. Tim flew over the jumps, to the delighted Bandar’s excitement, bounding around the course as if he had wings. Donna could feel his happy mood through the reins, and the saddle, as if nothing was such fun as this, carrying his rider over anything in his path. As they came to the finish, Donna was laughing at his prancing stop, his arched neck and blowing nostrils, inviting admiration, for he knew he had done well. Donna hugged his neck and slid to the ground, patting his sweaty shoulder.

  
“You do like that sort of thing, don’t you, boy?” she said, rubbing his neck. The German veterinary took the bay’s reins and handed Donna the roan. “He’ll cool out fast, Doctor, He doesn’t seem to be so much tired as excited.”

  
“He looks as if he might go without you,” laughed the lanky blond man. “He likes this game, jah?”

  
“His favorite thing,” agreed Donna, mounting the roan as her husband, his white stallion calm, took his place as she had. She could not see his round, as the trees hid most of the fences, but he was back much more quickly than she had expected, even on Hero.

  
“A minute faster than me,” she said, checking the watch, impressed. “What did you do, skip one?”

  
“No, said the Phantom, his stallion doing little half rears beneath him. “He likes it. He just kept going faster, each jump made him more eager. It’s almost funny. Oh, calm down, Hero. We’re done.”

  
“A lot of them get that way,” Donna said, ready to try Rifleman. “You’ll only get him around the dressage test once, if he finds out that the cross country stuff comes after.”

  
“Oh, go try the new horse,” he laughed, getting the big white to stand at last. “I better not let you go just yet, boy, or you’ll go after them.”

  
Donna found Rifleman to be bold, but to need far more direction and guidance than Tim. He was younger, less experienced, but had a good heart, fine gaits, and a lot of power in his wide back end. Heloise, Donna concluded happily, knew how to buy quality. Donna hoped her new sister-in-law had not had to pay too much, but admitted to herself that the roan gelding was, in all probability, worth whatever his price had been.

  
“And do you approve of him, darling?” asked the masked man, unsaddling the stallion as she cooled out the roan.

  
“Oh, yes, he’s nice,” Donna told him, walking the big roan, his breathing taking longer to return to normal than either Hero or TIm. “Still not in great condition, but better. A little seasoning and he’ll be fine. Hey, where’s Hero going? Oh, no!”

  
The stallion, freed of his tack, bolted down the valley, past straggling groups of pygmies, and disappeared into the trees. Tim, his head up, whinnied after his friend, but didn’t follow.

  
“What do you bet that he’s doing the course again?” laughed Donna, sliding off of Rifleman and taking off his saddle. There were willing hands to take all the horse’s things into the Skull Cave, for nothing would be left out in the storm that now approached.

  
“No bet,” laughed her husband, his purple colors dimming in the fading light. “Probably do it faster without me, too. I hope no one’s in his way down there.”

  
That night, with the storm raging outside, Donna found that both Chief Guran and Zarala had been on the course during Hero’s solo run. The Chief had jumped out of the way at the water obstacle, and Zarala, at the bank jump, had simply flattened herself against the wooden wall. She insisted that she’d seen a picture taken from that angle, and so it was safe, surely.

  
“He must have been having fun,” she concluded a bit wistfully. “He sure didn’t come close to hitting me or the fence. I don’t know how, Lady Donna, but you have to take Hero to at least one event. He’d have so much fun, and Tim would like the company.”

  
“I don’t know if the other people would like it if he did the course by himself after hours,” Donna told her friend, finishing her bridle and hanging it up. “Besides, he’s Kit’s horse, not mine. He’s needed here, not off playing games he’s already too good for.”

  
“We might figure out a way,” her husband said mildly, setting his cleaned saddle on its rack as lightning threw shadows in the cavern mouth. “After the baby comes, though, not before.”

  
“I hope the horses are alright,” worried Zarala, peering out into the rainy night. “I know Hero usually keeps them in their cave, but the new ones might not understand.”

  
“Nothing to be done about it now, dear,” Donna told her, hugging her tiny friend. “Don’t worry, none of the horses will defy Hero. It’d be like people not obeying Kit when he tells them to do something. I suppose there are a few who might, but who needs them?”

  
“Stupid people?” asked the Chief, also finished. “Or stupid horses?”

  
“Either one, I guess,” smiled Donna. “Stupid is usually more trouble than not, unless there’s some other really redeeming factor, horse or human. With a horse, it has to be really sweet and maybe talented. A human, too, I suppose. But those types wouldn’t defy the big boss, either. None of these horses are stupid, really, not hat way, so it’ll be okay.”

  
“You are not to go and check on them until morning, Zarala,” the Phantom told the tiny girl, her head barely coming up to his holster. The bottom of the holster where it was tied down to his thigh. “They’ll be fine, and your mother will worry. So would Donna, wouldn’t you, dear?”

  
“That’s right, partner,” Donna told her tiny friend. “Now get on home and get some sleep. No telling what we’ll have to do tomorrow.”

  
“If it’s still raining, can you tell us stories about your horse shows?” asked Zarala, reluctant to leave her friend. “Maybe about the Pony Club War?”

  
“I guess I’ll have to, since you’ve only heard Daddy’s version,” said the blond, shooing the girl out the cavern mouth into the rain with her uncle. “Sleep well.”


	6. Chapter 6

That night, for the first night since her wedding, Donna saw the ghost of her father-in-law, not as a faint shimmer, but as an insubstantial shape, distinct, but transparent. She almost jumped out of her skin, he startled her so, but her husband’s warm, solid flesh reassured her, even as she realized who it was. Or what, she thought.

  
“It’s only Dad,” he said into her ear, smiling at her reaction, which had been to grab him first, not scream or faint. “He’d never hurt you, Donna. Yes, Dad, she’s really pregnant. In nine months, I assume, as usual. Oh, well, I shouldn’t be gone that long, you know. Yes, I’ll tell her, of course.”

  
“That’s like listening to a phone conversation from one end,” complained the blond, carefully putting a marker between the pages of the Chronicle she had been quizzing him on. “And I almost dropped the book when I saw him.”

  
“He probably didn’t know you would see him,” he told her, putting the big volume on the floor next to the bed. “I guess you still can’t hear him?”

  
“No, so what did he say?” Donna demanded, turning the light down low and snuggling up to her lover beneath the covers.

  
“If you were pregnant, really, and when you were due,” he told her, kissing her ear, drawing in the distinctive scent of her hair. “He says I’ll have to go to the Chakar area, as they’re having some trouble on the border with some deserters. It shouldn’t take long to get rid of them, but I don’t think you’d better come. I haven’t taught you anything about guns yet, and you’d need to know a little about that sort of thing if people were going to shoot at you.”

  
“Oh, well, I guess so,” Donna admitted reluctantly. “You’d better fix that when you get back, love. It seems a serious flaw in my education. Anything else?”

  
“Um, Duncan’s on his way back, and he’ll keep an eye on you for me. And congratulations, and all that. Typical grandfather stuff, I guess.”

  
“Oh, he must have been as sweet as you, dear,” sighed the blond, running her hand over his hip. “Makes me feel sad I can’t talk to him.”

  
“I think you will, eventually,” he told her, stroking her long, hard-muscled back. “And you could always read his Chronicle, you know. You’ll run out of mine, soon.”

  
“Would he mind?” asked Donna, content to be petted, for the moment.

  
“No more than I do, darling,” he chuckled, and proceeded to more intimate caresses. “It’s why we write things down, you know. So nosy little wives can find out about their husbands and that kind of thing.”

  
“Nosy, am I?” Donna growled in mock outrage. “I’ll show you nosy.”

  
By dawn the storm was breaking, and the Phantom had departed for distant Chakar by ten, his wife’s farewell still warming his body and his heart. Surely she wouldn’t really come looking for him if he took too long. By the time he had been called upon by the talking drums, he was halfway to the troubled border. All the Bandar bothered to do was send an acknowledgement.

  
In spite of ground too wet to work horses, Zarala, and a few others, spent their afternoon with the ponies, learning to make them do things like pick up their feet. The three ponies also had to learn to lay down on command, get up, stand quietly and several other simple tricks, some just fun, others necessary to allow the pygmy children to work with them. Though bigger, the lazier nature of the pinto, Cookie, made him a favorite with Jokan, Moki and the others, while Zarala was becoming quite fond of the bold little Brownie. Biscuit was, strangely, Zoli’s favorite, returning the favor by lipping his hair at every opportunity.

  
“Lady Donna,” Jokan asked, still impressed by the jumping of the day before, “could ponies jump like that, like Tim and Hero? They’re a lot smaller, but Zarala doesn’t weigh anything compared to the Ghost Who Walks. Will she ever try those jumps?”

  
“I’ve seen some pretty athletic ponies,” Donna told them, remembering a few. “I think, after some practice, Zarala could take Brownie over some of them. Not the bounce, it’s the wrong distance for someone that size, although she could maybe make a one stride of it. Cookie is too, well, relaxed for eventing. A hunter class, maybe, would be more his type of competition. He’s very well mannered and calm, a very nice sort for a hunter hack class. Pretty soon, Zarala will be giving you lessons on him, if you want.”

  
“What about Biscuit?” asked Zoli, rubbing the miniature thoroughbred’s head. “Could I learn on him? He seems to like me.”

  
“Only one way to find out,” Donna told him cheerfully. “I hope you like to fall off, though. Polo ponies aren’t like Cookie, or even Tim. The least little shift of body, leg or hand tells them to do things, and they do ‘em, right then. Polo is a very fast game, and Heloise didn’t get slow ponies. They might turn when you ask, but so fast you fall off. Then they look at you as if they can’t believe it. You can almost hear them saying things like ‘what happened to you? Didn’t you say to turn?’”

  
“Well, it’s not a long way down from him,” said the older Zoli, thoughtfully, measuring the distances. “And he wouldn’t mean to do it. Would I need a helmet?”

  
“If we can find one,” Donna told him as they all walked up the path toward the Cave. None of the horses had been hurt during the storm, so the buckets with brushes and wraps were returning mostly unused. “As far as I know, there’s only mine and Zarala’s, so we’ll try those.”

  
A lonely night was spent partly on her lover’s history, and partly on plans for a pie, several, actually. Over the next week, Donna’s kitchen became a popular place, many of the Bandar sharing an interest in cooking. With a surprisingly small failure rate, the blond mastered pies, cookies and biscuits, the last in honor of both the pony and Duncan McLeod’s return.

  
“It’s been a week,” sighed Donna at the Highlander’s question. “A long, lonely week, Duncan. Oh, not during the day, but the nights are, well, wrong. I wake up hoping it’s a bad dream, that he’ll be there, but he’s not. And then I throw up.”

  
“Are you sick?” he asked, startled. “Oh, not exactly, eh?”

  
“No, not exactly,” grinned Dona, feeling a kind of comfort in the Scot’s presence. He wasn’t her husband, but he was what many thought her man to be. Four hundred or more years old, Duncan McLeod was immortal, unkillable unless his head was taken. Donna had yet to hear how he’d met the Phantom, or which one, for that matter. “About eight months now, I guess. Mid December or so.”

  
“Well, congratulations,” he said, meaning it. “I guess that shoots down my hopes of kidnapping you and keeping you for my own. Ah, well maybe you’ll have a daughter and I can talk her into marrying me.”

  
“You’re such a tease, Duncan,” said Donna, though she knew him to be half-serious. “Go get hitched to Heloise, then.”

  
“I don’t think so,” he said, shaking his head emphatically. “I know her too well. She’d start hunting down other immortals for me, like as not. If she liked me that week. I don’t really want her to do that, she’s doing fine as it is.”

  
“Well, finish your cake, then,” she told him. “Tell me how you met the Phantom, the first time, while I do dishes. Tomorrow I make mango pies and teach Zarala to jump the bank.”

  
“And look at wedding pictures,” added the dark-haired Scot. “Alright, uh, I think it was the Eighteenth, no the Sixteenth Phantom …”

  
By the time her lover had returned, Donna had stopped being nauseous, almost a month from his departure. Zoli had come to an agreement with the feisty Biscuit. Zarala had progressed from the bank jump to spreads, and Cookie was ridden three times a day, though not very hard. Donna had somehow managed to keep up her horse’s conditioning, the children’s lessons, her own practice with spear and sword and her gymnastics. Her unrelenting activity and cheerful good humor fooled no one, however, and her nights were still lonely, though she was now reading about her father-in-law.

  
When the great white stallion came thundering into the Deep Woods, her beloved astride him as if he were a god from some forgotten realm, Donna nearly lost her composure completely. She ran toward him and without stopping, he pulled her onto his saddle with him, Hero coming to a halt on his own. The stallion stamped impatiently, as they showed no signs of getting off, shaking his head and making the cheering Bandar laugh. Somehow, without letting go of each other, they ended up on the ground, still locked in each other’s arms.

  
“Oh, that’s so romantic,” sighed Moki to her little sister, gathered with the others, watching.

  
“No, it’s not,” said Zarala in disgust. “No one’s paying any attention to Hero. Uncle Guran, please take off Hero’s tack for him.”

  
“Oh, I think they’ll come up for air soon, little one,” the chief told her with a laugh. “See, they are again part of our world, if, I think, briefly.”

  
Donna found her feet back on the ground, but her knees unwilling to support her. She put out a hand and found Hero’s stirrup. She had just enough wits still functioning to pull off his bridle and saddle, not really aware of the hands that took them from her, only the pounding of her heart, the ache inside her. She was lost in his presence as he scooped her up and carried her into the Skull Cave. Hero rambled off to get reacquainted with his herd.

  
“Now,” said Zarala in satisfaction, “it’s romantic.”

  
Inside, both of them still fully dressed, the couple spent some time just kissing each other, before speaking.

  
“Oh, Kit, I’ve missed you so,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “Are you alright? Not hurt?”

  
“Not hurt, not tired, not hungry for anything but you, Donna, dearest,” he whispered back, caressing her hair, letting the scent and taste of her fill him with peace and desire. “I didn’t even know how much I missed you until I saw you. Darling, you’re so beautiful, so warm, so alive. I don’t know how I could have left you.”

“Forget that, Kit,” growled the blond. “Make love to me, now. I want you so badly, I’m ready to shred both our clothes with my bare hands.”

  
“Oh, darling,” he chuckled, taking off his gunbelt, letting it fall to the floor. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  
Hours later, as the sun was going down, a red sky foreshadowing a nice day, they came out into the world once more, each looking both exhausted and thoroughly pleased with each other. Donna found that her kitchen had been borrowed to make a batch of oatmeal cookies and a rather odd looking pie, each awaiting them on the table. As they were testing the cookies, Zarala darted into the small cavern with a tray of Tula’s fried chicken, set it on the table with a grin and left.

  
“Ah, we seem to be predictable,” mourned Donna, filing two cups with water from the sink. “Darling, we must be some kind of norm, much as I hate to think it of you.”

  
“Come, now, Donna,” he told her fondly, taking a piece of chicken. “The Bandar are all incurable romantics at heart. Guran’s probably had reports every ten minutes since I got back. We’re lucky they don’t serenade us, like the Llongo do for newlyweds. Now, eat your dinner, Donna, you’ll need your strength, and so will I. The night is young, and I’ve still got some time to make up for.”

  
“Well, that part is quite nicely predictable, Kit,” said Donna, picking up her own piece of chicken. “Now, tell me all about your trip. Did you meet any nice people?”

  
“Donna,” he laughed as he took another piece of chicken. “I didn’t go there to meet ‘nice people’, I went there to keep deserters from Satif-Bioko’s civil war from breaking the Peace. They were from the city, so they didn’t know better, really.”

  
“No nice people at all?’ asked Donna, making inroads on the chicken herself. “Not even the people who lived there?”

  
“Oh, the Chakar tribes were quite nice,” he agreed, recalling with great sadness the bodies he’d seen, the burned village, the crying child. His anger had been terrible, the deserters captured and handed over to the chiefs of the region. The majority of his time away had been spent teaching the tribes how to defend themselves from modern soldiers, and how to make their homes less easy targets. Motivation had not been a problem, and now it would take a full scale military strike to get across the border at that point.

  
“You don’t look as if it was much fun,” Donna told him, her heart aching at his sorrow, plain on his face, at least to her. “Don’t talk about it, then. You need to hear good news, not think about sad things. Good news, let’s see, well, Duncan brought back the wedding pictures, and I have to say, Dumont is a fine photographer. Also, he’s still here, watching out for me, I guess. Uh, I’ve stopped having morning sickness, thank goodness, which I regard as wonderful news, by the way.”

  
“Yes, that is good news,” he agreed, feeling a bit less ravenous. “And no problems here?”

  
“No just a request from the Oogaan to visit,” she told him, deciding that three pieces of chicken were enough. For her. “Guran seemed to think that it was for me, not you, but he must be mistaken, don’t you think?”

  
“Probably not,” he told her, taking the last piece of chicken, after Donna shook her head at him. “Guran’s seldom wrong about that sort of thing. And it’s time to start showing you off to the neighbors, I suppose.”

  
“No mission looming in the future?” said Donna, excitement in her face at the idea. “You can come with me? Oh, Kit, when?”

  
“Oh, in a day or so, given the chance,” he told her, with a smile. “Can’t keep Aboma-Konalh cooped up forever, you know. Even the Chakar people know about you, your battle, and one of the chiefs asked why you hadn’t come. I told them that morning sickness made you bad-tempered, and they all agreed that you shouldn’t be out fighting anyone in a bad temper.”

  
“Oh, Kit, you didn’t!” exclaimed Donna, horrified. “Now they’ll think I’m a pregnant, bitchy cow and wonder why you had the bad taste to marry me.”

  
“Oh, no, they won’t,” he soothed, rinsing off the tray the chicken had been on. “Remember, some of the chiefs were at the wedding. They know what you’re like, dear. Besides, in that part of the jungle, customs are a little different. The women own the land, and do the farming, the men own the cattle and do the hunting. And a lot of women are just as violent in battle as the men, and as skilled. No man in that part of the jungle would risk irritating a woman of your reputation, dear, for fear of his own life. They have enough problems with their own women that they probably sympathize with me.”

  
“Oh, yes, darling, I browbeat you so,” sighed Donna theatrically. “I’m so demanding and unreasonable, downright physically abusive, even.”

  
“Oh, I wouldn’t call it abusive,” he murmured, taking her into his arms like a child, kissing her gently. “Physical, yes, demanding, perhaps, but certainly not unreasonable.”

  
“Hmm, I must not be doing it right,” Donna said, as if to herself. “Let’s go try again. And bring the cookies, will you?”

  
Later, after the couple had been observed returning to their quarters, Jula, Muzi, Zarala and Tula stole into the kitchen to inspect the remains of their gift meal. Muzi was there to provide expert commentary on the eating habits of pregnant women, in spite of her insistence that Donna, like all women, was unique in her cravings. Zarala was there to make certain that everything was put back in its proper place for her beloved Lady Donna. The two sisters were curious as to what had been eaten and what had not.

  
“Ah, they did not touch the pie,” sighed Tula. “Rumal will be disappointed, but Jokan will not be.”

  
“The cookies and chicken are gone, though,” Jula said in satisfaction. “Ah, see, the tray with the cookies on it is gone, too, so it is with them. Is it well, Muzi? Or should we try something else at breakfast?”

  
“He’s been gone nearly a month, Jula,” chuckled the old midwife, as Tula took the somewhat oddly shaped pie back to Rumal and his family. “It’s a wonder they even thought of food. That’s what we’re for, you see, to make sure they survive to have the child, no?”

  
“Maybe you are, but I’m more interested in their immediate health,” retorted Jula, taking the tray Tula’s chicken had been on from the draining rack. “And my daughter is on an even more specific mission, aren’t you, Zarala?”

  
“Make Lady Donna and her horses as happy as possible,” replied Zarala, with a nod, seeing that everything was in its place. “Not easy the last few weeks, with him gone.”

  
“Ah, you’re growing up, little one,” smiled her mother, having once despaired of her youngest child. Now her obsession with horses had been magically transformed from bad to good simply by adding in the Phantom’s wife. Having achieved one goal, then another, in quick succession, now the tiny girl had only peripheral goals beside her main aim in life. Once she had only wanted to know how to ride, then to have her own horse. Now she let life come to her, as long as it didn’t interfere with Lady Donna’s plans.

  
Zarala had once spent all her free time on horses, drawing them, reading about them, watching them. Now, she rode ponies and horses, cared for others, and helped teach the children of the village to ride as well. In addition, the tiny girl had begun to learn exotic weapons from the Bandar arsenal, thinking that her mother didn’t know. The blowgun and bolo took years to master, but Zarala was attempting them, as well as learning basic gymnastics from the tall woman, and knife work from the Scot.

  
Though Jula knew that her daughter was learning about weapons, she did not realize why. She did not know that Heloise Walker had spoken with the Kes, the amazonian tribe believed the blond New Zealander to be the returned spirit of the ancient, legendary Queen Aboma, their mythic ancestor. In addition to the warrior queen, legends of their tribe told of other female warriors, including a tiny assassin-bodyguard, known in the tales as Danh-seh, or Shadow. They believed Zarala to be the modern version of Shadow, and Zarala intended to do her best in the role.


	7. Chapter 7

The next day was spent in lazy napping or catching up on gossip, easy work for horses and people alike. The wedding photos were again displayed, having been thoughtfully mounted in several albums by Jean Dumont. Duncan McLeod, having spent part of each day on Donna’s sword work, decided to ride with them as far as Oogaan territory before parting company with them. Donna baked a pie, banana, for dinner and a rather impromptu potluck happened on the lawn, with Duncan as the main entertainment. His tale of the American Civil War was gripping, holding the interest of even the folk who had no idea when it had happened.

  
“And how is Donna doing, sword-wise?” asked the Phantom of the Highlander, as the Scot sat down at last. “Getting better?”

  
“Kit, she could take my head now, if she wanted to,” said the man, after a long drink of water. The last part of the story had involved a sword duel done with sticks and Donna herself. “Only way for her to progress now is to fight you. Carefully, of course.”

  
“Which of us is to be careful?” he asked with a grin, pulling the blond to her feet, the light in her eyes telling him more than any words.

  
“Ah, never mind,” sighed the immortal, seeing how the wind blew. “See you tomorrow morning.”

  
The next morning, though rain threatened, the three tall people, mounted and armed, rode out of the Deep Woods toward the Oogaan lands. Zarala, reluctantly staying behind, was in charge of all the horses, lessons and work, which made her much less unhappy about her idol’s absence. And, of course, Donna had both the Phantom and the Highlander to guard her from harm.

  
Donna felt as if she were going on a holiday, riding her beloved horse, with two strong, handsome, intelligent, interesting men to talk to. The dark haired Scot carried his sword and a rifle, and rode his washy chestnut, his single pack horse following on a lead line. Donna carried her spear and had her sword cased at her pommel, Tim strutting beneath her like a circus horse. Devil bounded along in high spirits, as if he had not just gone over a hundred miles only the day before.

  
Donna could not keep her eyes off of her husband, his beautiful body, sheathed in purple silk, glowed even in the cloud-filtered light. Astride the gleaming white Hero, the two seemed a study in male beauty, their sharply defined muscles and perfect shapes making her heart sing inside her. Hero moved with silent, graceful gaits across the damp earth of the trail, in his element as much as any deer or leopard. Alert for dangerous animals, trail hazards and other dangers, the Phantom seemed unaware of his wife’s adoring gaze, but he felt it easily, like a warm hand on his back. Ahead of her on the narrow trail, he smiled at her, though none saw him.

  
Duncan McLeod saw her looks plainly, however, and again mildly cursed the fate that had sent her to the mortal instead of him. It was done, now, he told himself sternly, and in truth, he had to admit that they were a fine match. Such a man did need someone like Donna, probably more than he, really. But he envied the mortal more than he could ever tell him, for both his wife and his coming child, the one thing an immortal could not have.

  
Though he had no intentions of fulfilling them, the Highlander had spun numerous fantasies of the kiwi woman in the past weeks. He had accidentally seen her swimming with her Bandar friends before the wedding, and the memory of her naked body had burned itself into his mind like a brand. He was quite positive that Donna would have no more attraction to him, even if her husband did die, and had no idea how wrong he was. His fantasies were just that, he was certain, for even being rescued from sure and gruesome death would be unlikely to shake this Kiwi woman’s nerve. He had, in the past, had women offer their bodies to him in gratitude for that kind of help, but this blond Valkyrie was not like them, the Highlander thought in regret.

  
Donna had a good idea how the Scot felt, for he had openly discussed it with her husband, apparently not aware that Kit would tell her. She had not been pleased to find her husband had sworn the Scot to be her protector, should he be killed, not because of Duncan, but because the thought of her beloved dead frightened her so. And she did not want to tell either of them how easy it would be to fall in love with the immortal, who led a life as dangerous and exciting as Kit. The idea of loving both of them was not so impossible as she had first thought, but it was still no contest as to who she preferred. Though she had had a shockingly erotic dream featuring them both, two nights before Kit’s return. She had blushed all day long whenever the Highlander spoke to her, it had been so vivid.

  
With good horses, and no problems on the trail, they beat the rain to the Oogaan village, the drums of thunder announcing their arrival. Mindful of the coming downpour, their horses and gear were quickly housed in a sturdy structure that seemed more of a drying shed than a barn. They had only just been hustled into the huge, circular building nearby when the heavens opened up, drenching any latecomers to the party. Oogaan tribesfolk seemed very serious and solemn, until the rain began. Then they began to chant, swaying like trees in a storm, and a high, fluting sound came from somewhere, eerily reminiscent of birds.'

  
“Welcome, o Ghost Who Walks,” said a familiar voice, and a man in the trappings of an Oogaan prince came forward, Obijuj, son of Omagi. Donna had finally learned that Chiefs, in the jungle, ruled their tribes, but their heirs were called princes. In Oogaan, the Chief Omagi, Obiju’s father, was lame, a result of an accident long ago, and much of his social duties had devolved on his athletic and magnetic son. “My father is waiting to see you, and your lovely wife, Aboma Konalh. The weather causes him much pain, but he would not be denied meeting her. He hears a dispute now over the ever accursed boundary stones at Dnebe. If you would come with me, we will go wait our turn.”

  
The Phantom grinned at his wife as she rolled her eyes at him in resignation. She carried her sword, her spear left at the door, and wondered if she might have avoided the reincarnated queen designation had she left the sword on her saddle. Duncan carried his, though, so she’d kept hers. The weather was actually quite pleasant, as far as she was concerned, cool and damp, for the tropics, rather than hot and humid. Perhaps it was like the winter season at home, bad for old injuries, arthritis and that sort of thing. What was it that Kevin Brandon used for that, she thought as they were led to the Chief’s part of the room.

  
On a couch draped with thick furs and padded with pillows, an old man sat listening to several people argue. He was regally handsome, an older version of the handsome Obiju, and he sat like a king, though lines of pain had marked his face. One leg was crooked, apparently a break that had healed badly. A cap of leopard skin crowned him, and a robe of white monkey fur kept him warm. Gold leaf covered his wooden throne, intricately carved and sturdily made. Much of the great round hall they stood in reminded Donna of the elaborate meeting houses of her homelands, the Maori Whare. The motifs were different, but the skills and attention to details were the same.

  
“What are they talking about?” she asked her husband softly as they waited politely, even Omagi beginning to look impatient.

  
“They have fields that they are disputing the boundaries of,” he told her, listening closely. “They keep moving the stone markers, each claiming that the other one did so first. I think the river may have moved them the first time.”

  
“Why don’t they use trees to mark their fields?” asked Donna thoughtfully. “Can’t move a tree so easily.”

  
Obiju stared at her in surprise, then nodded slowly. He made his way to his father’s side and whispered into the old man’s ear for a few moments. The two men arguing before him paused, only then noticing who stood behind them. Wide eyed, they stood silent as the Chief raised his hand.

  
After he had spoken, the two neighbors nodded vigorously, casting looks over their shoulders at the Phantom and his companions. Devil had come with them, and now sat with his head on Donna’s feet, an honor she could have done without, but she didn’t like to tell him so, for fear he might feel hurt. The two litigants embraced briefly, apparently as a formal sort of agreement, and hurried off into the general crowd.

  
“You are as wise as you are beautiful, o Aboma Konalh,” the old Chief said, using heavily accented English. He waved them forward toward him, into his immediate court, as Donna thought of it. She blushed at his remark, wishing she did not have her saber in one hand, almost as if she did not trust him. It seemed impolite.

  
“Donna,” her husband said smoothly, “this is Chief Omagi, head of the Oogaan tribe. Chief Omagi, my wife, Donna, and my friend Duncan McLeod. Duncan’s on his way back to Mawitaan, if the weather permits.”

  
“Lady Donna,” said the Chief, trying out the name as if he had never heard it before. “You are welcome in Oogaan lands and in my home. Wisdom to think of trees for boundaries, instead of stones. But what if they fall or die?”

  
“Plant new ones,” shrugged the blond, trying to be polite and not let her stomach growl. “In my country, lots of fields have rows of trees at each edge, for shade, wind breaks, firewood, not just to tell where a property line is. We plant trees as crops, too, you see, though it takes longer for your harvest.”

  
“It would be good to plant kashi trees so,” mused the Chief, king in all but name. “Each year it is harder to find them for wood. I will think on this. A judge will find the proper boundary at Dnebe and trees will be planted. Even should this fail, some good may come of it.”

  
“Planting trees is always good,” said Donna firmly. “My people once almost deforested our islands, and nearly killed off the great kauri trees, before we saw what was happening and tried to fix it. No one should ever think that they ‘just’ cut down one tree. There’s always other destruction along with it. Sorry, touched a sore spot, there, darling.”

  
“Oh, that’s alright, dear,” he told her fondly. “The Oogaan have always been careful about their timber cutting. It’s just hard to find kashi because there’s some sort of disease in the area that affects them.”

  
“She is indeed wise, o Ghost Who Walks,” smiled the Chief, waving his son over toward them. “And feels things deeply. I hope you do not regret the trial too much when the prophecy is fulfilled. She seems worth such travails.”

  
“She is worth anything I have to endure to have her,” the tall man told the chief. “No matter what happens, if she stays well, I will be happy.”

  
“Then we had best feed her,” laughed the old chief, as Donna’s stomach made itself heard, to her embarrassment. “Or make you both unhappy. My son will see to your needs, old friend, and of your companion. My wives will tend to your woman, for they are eager to meet her, and will feed her well, do not worry. They have been cooking since the drums told us of your visit.”

  
“And you, Chief Omagi?” asked the Phantom, concerned for the older man. “Your leg troubles you so much now that you cannot join us?”

  
“Alas, it is so,” admitted the old chief. “This weather is very bad for it. Had it stayed dry, I might have eaten with you, and, indeed, the dry season was quite good. To control the pain, I must take certain medicines which make me poor company. I am truly sorry.”

  
“As am I, old friend,” said the Phantom, even as two big warriors carefully lifted their chief and his couch, while two others made ready to protect him from the rain. “But age touches us all, some harder than others.”

  
The young man who was his heir led them back to the main room, now filled with food, slightly damp people, and cheerful conversation. On pillows of lion skins, he seated the two men, and several older women took Donna to the opposite side of the dome to an even more elaborate seat. A wide space with a fire pit in it separated the blond from her men, but Donna didn’t argue about it, as it seemed custom here. As soon as they had been seated, on a couch almost as elaborate as the Chief’s, in Donna’s case, food was brought in and served to them, though everyone else served themselves.

  
“Aboma Konalh,” said one of the wives of Omagi, wearing enough golden ornaments to buy a car, Donna estimated. “Welcome to our village. I am Haranbat, chief wife of Omagi and these are my sister wives, Tugrah, Illdat and Nyota. I speak English, and they understand some of it, but do not speak it well. Ask of us and we will do our best.”

  
“Oh, I’m certain your English, all of you, is better than my Oogaan,” Donna assured the oldest lady, noting that the other women named were only slightly less burdened with bullion. “I’ve only just learned Bandarese, really, and a few words in other languages. And, please, call me Donna, all my friends do.”

  
“We would be honored to do so,” agreed the solid woman, her striped caftan looking too warm to the kiwi. “What do you desire to eat, Donna?”

  
The evening went well, Donna thought, although she was a little lonely. It was hard to enjoy the entertainment when she kept seeing her beloved across the room, his head bent to this or that conversation. Donna did succeed in learning a little Oogaan, to the delight of her hostesses, who seemed perfectly willing to teach her the entire language. They retired, eventually, led to a nearby hut that held several cots, a fire pit and some water jars. In such a place, Donna knew, her husband would not so much as take off his boots, let alone make love to her, but he didn’t even lay down, at first. Devil lay across the doorway, and he squatted on his heels by the fire, letting it dry him a little before sleeping. Donna and Duncan copied him, more or less, close around the small fire.

  
“A fine meal, a stormy night, a warm place to sleep,” commented the immortal, his sword still in hand. “It might be the Highlands four hundred years ago.”

  
“And rumors of war and conquest,” added the Phantom, taking Donna’s hand and kissing it. “As well as omens and prophecy. Donna, I’ve begun hearing stories of a man in the foothills who is calling himself the new emperor, claiming descent from Joonkar. I know for a fact that Joonkar had no children who survived long enough to have their own, but few others know that. He calls himself Emperor Djembe, and he seems to have already taken over or conquered a lot of territory back by the Misty Mountains.”

  
“Aye, that does sound like Scotland,” sighed McLeod. “But what has that to do with us, with the jungle?”

  
“Quite a lot, really,” the Phantom told them, seeing the way Donna’s hair caught the fire’s light and fighting down a surge of desire. “He’s announced his intentions to retake all the territory held by his alleged ancestor, which includes much of the jungle around the Deep Woods. And his intention is to wed Donna, the returned Aboma, and rule even greater territory.”

  
“Huh, not likely,” snorted Donna, squeezing his strong hand with her own, the other still holding her sword. “I’d marry Duncan, if I had to have two husbands, but not some pretender in the middle of nowhere who doesn’t even know me. Why would he want to marry me, anyway?”

  
“Because you represent power, darling,” he told her, tracing her ring with his thumb. “People believe you are the warrior queen returned, and will follow you, who would not follow such an upstart. Your reputation would win him some territory without battles, a shrewd move, like an alliance marriage.”

  
“He’s right, Donna,” the Highlander said seriously. “I’ve seen it before. Even if this Djembe believes in the Aboma legend, and the Phantom, he thinks he can convince you in the marriage bed. He forgets the queen’s reputation for, shall we say, strength of character. And he might have some plan for you, old friend.”

  
“Look, I’m married to Kit,” said Donna, a little confused. “I’m pregnant with his child. Doesn’t that take me out of play for dynastic intrigue? I mean, aside from the fact that I’d geld him if he tried to bed me.”

  
Duncan winced, his hopes having been raised by her earlier remarks. The Phantom was often gone for long periods, he thought, in which he might console her and entertain her, were he her second husband.

  
“He’s a man in search of power,” the Phantom said quietly, thinking. “A man who already has power. He probably thinks he’s a match for you, in spite of the stories. He seems to have discounted me entirely. I think I might be insulted. What do you think, Duncan? Should I be insulted?”

  
“I think you should be careful,” the Scot said, his eyes resolutely on the fire. “A man like that may already have something in mind to get you out of his way. And because of who you are, and what people think you are, it’s likely to be really nasty. I wouldn’t take chances with someone like you, Kit. I’d either capture you and use you to force Donna, or make sure you’re dead and hope it takes you awhile to recover. And we all know how that works.”

  
“Rather better than I’d like to let on,” sighed the masked giant, seeing Donna go rather pale, a look of unease on her face. “Oh, don’t worry, darling, I won’t take chances. I do think we ought to try to find out more about this Djembe, though. I’ve never cared for conquerors.”

  
“Perhaps I should go that way,” said the Scot thoughtfully. “Scout around a bit, see what I can find out.”

  
“I thought you were going to leave,” said Donna, worried. “Don’t you have something going on elsewhere?”

  
“No, Duncan, I’ll go,” the Phantom said quietly, as if his very calm would equate with fact. “You’re white and will not blend in enough with the locals. I speak the languages and know the country. I’ll go.”

  
“No, Kit,” said the Scot stubbornly. “I know the area and the languages well enough. As for my color, it’s the same as yours. And if the fellow gets his hands on you, what do you suppose Donna will do?”

  
“Anything I have to, to get him back,” said Donna, thinking of the Kes, whose language Kit had been teaching her. “Even if I have to marry the fool. After all, once he tries to bed me, I’ll have him in my hand, literally, and he will obey me, or suffer the consequences.”

  
“Donna, don’t even think that,” exclaimed her husband, appalled at the idea, yet touched that she would go so far for him. “That’s too dangerous.”

  
“For him,” said Donna evenly. “Kit, I’m yours. Just letting someone else kiss me doesn’t change that. As long as I carry your child, even sex with another man is not going to cause permanent harm. For me. If his price for your life were to have sex with him, I’d do it, until he let you go. Then he’d be a very sorry fellow, for as long as I let him live.”

  
“I’d definitely not go, if I were you, Kit,” said McLeod, envisioning Donna’s compliance and vengeance with painful clarity. “No matter how many husbands Aboma had, I think Donna only wants one. Although, if she starts collecting, I do want an audition at the second slot.”

  
“Alright,” the Phantom agreed reluctantly, but horrified at the pictures the two had painted. How could Donna think of such a thing? “But take no chances, Duncan. Remember, in that part of the jungle, it’s routine to take an enemy’s head after killing him. That would be very bad for you.”

  
“Kit, I’ve been all over the world,” McLeod said seriously, but looking at both as if he had no fear. “And no one’s taken my head yet. Don’t worry about that, worry about how I’ll get what I find out back to you.”

  
“Just come back,” suggested Donna, “soon. It’s bad enough worrying about Kit. Don’t make me worry about you, too.”

  
“Donna, I didn’t know you cared,” said the immortal, smiling. “I’ll be fine. Now, I’m dry, I think, so I’m going to bed. I hope you two don’t snore, or, uh, anything.”

  
“Not with this sleeping arrangement,” said Donna with some dissatisfaction. “And Kit never snores. If I do, wake me up.”

  
“Huh, not after your remarks about men in your bed,” said the Highlander teasingly. “You might wake up mean. Kit’s fast enough to avoid the consequences, but I’m not. You can keep on snoring.”

  
Donna rolled her eyes and stood up, stretching. To the Scot’s surprise, and secret pleasure, she kissed him goodnight first, then her husband. True, she spent more time on him, but it was a beginning of sorts. The two men watched as she settled onto the nearest cot and soon slept. They exchanged looks that Donna would have found interesting, and Duncan took his own bed, to dream quite pleasantly. The Phantom hardly slept at all, accustomed to the practice of resting without sleeping, alert, yet relaxed. Though this was friendly territory, he would take no chances with Donna, for the reports he had already heard of the new Emperor Djembe worried him.


	8. Chapter 8

Duncan left on his mission the next morning, a blustery, but clear day. Donna felt a pang of worry, but reminded herself that the immortal was better at surviving than he looked. The Phantom and his wife were invited to the setting of the boundary trees, duly attended, and a marriage, during which Donna was monopolized by matrons and young women, eager to sound out her opinions. The Phantom wondered what subversive ideas she had planted, but didn’t ask, as all too many men had similar questions about her. He found it odd how many men thought such skills as his wife’s attractive, even arousing.

  
“And how does she like the bow we sent to your wedding, o Ghost?” asked one man, his finery more in honor of the Phantom and Aboma Konalh than the wedding pair. Indeed, had not the two who had been married not been so in love, they might have felt neglected, but they never noticed.

  
“I’m sorry to say she won’t use the bow and arrows,” the Phantom told the men with a smile. “She insists that she’s not good enough, yet, to use such beautiful weapons. Worries that she might lose an arrow. She’s getting better, though.”

  
“Then what of the spear that Chief Mbele boasts of?” asked Prince Obiju, curiously, cup in hand. “It is the same as the one she carries, is it not? And the one she used against the Mussanga?”

  
“Yes, but she already knew what she was doing with a lance,” he told them, watching the know of women around Donna. “She uses plain ones to practice throwing, though. Has great respect for fine workmanship, Donna does.”

  
“Do you think that she is Aboma returned, o Ghost Who Walks?” asked another man, older, more thoughtful. “Many say that she is, and it seems that she is, having met her, but what do you, her husband, think? One legend to another, so to speak.”

  
“I think that, if she is the reincarnate Queen Aboma,” he said seriously, “she doesn’t know it. As I never met the original, I can’t say if they are the same, but Donna doesn’t think so. Donna thinks we’re all silly for thinking so, you see. But if she was, would she know? Nothing of the legend details that part.”

  
While the men pondered questions on metaphysics and philosophy, as embodied in the pregnant blond, the women had their own forum. Far from fluent in Oogaan, Donna was helped by several ladies who spoke English well enough to translate. They had more intimate questions, more important to them than who Donna might have been in a previous life.

  
“Aboma was said to have a hundred husbands to please her,” commented the Chief Wife of Omagi. “Are you going to take other husbands?”

  
“Aboma didn’t have any husband like the Phantom,” Donna told the gathered women, blushing. “Two of him would kill a woman with pleasure. One is all I’ll ever need.”

  
“Ah, he is mighty in bed as well as in combat,” deduced Haranbat with a smile, translating to her compatriots. “Tell me, is he as beautiful as he seems? Is he gentle with you? Surely such strength as his would be harmful to someone of our sex, if he is not. Although, you are strong, as well.”

  
“Haranbat,” said Donna, blushing even harder, “he is even more beautiful than he should be. And, yes, he’s gentle, careful, sometimes more than I’d like. And I’ve never had any trouble pleasing him, thank you.”

  
“Ah, of course, you would not,” sighed the Chiefess. “He would probably kill me with pleasure, even were I younger, and most other women, as well. We, after all, are not Aboma Konalh. But what a fine way to die, no?”

  
“Mostly,” Donna pointed out, as the others exclaimed longingly in agreement, “it’s the man who expires during sex, isn’t it? Maybe that’s why Aboma had so many men, because she wore them out. Even an ordinary woman can do that to a man, don’t you find?”

  
“Yes, I have heard of instances,” giggled the woman like a school girl. “And after she buries her first husband, she has her pick of others. Perhaps that is why Aboma had so many husbands, and you need only one.”

  
“I need only one husband,” Donna said firmly, “because no one else can be nearly as wonderful as the one I have. We match each other well, for now, but I do worry, just a little, about how he’ll feel later, when I’m older.”

  
“Yes,” agreed Haranbat, having had such worries herself, on occasion. “He will always be the same, and you will age, and perhaps die. It is hard, I would guess, not to worry about that, but he loves you now, and men grow fonder of their wives as they grow older, you will see. He will be very sad when you leave him, and it will be years before he can love again. The jungle has seen it often.”

  
“Oh,” said Donna, taken aback. She had been thinking more of the coming birth, not the mythic aspect of their pairing. The Oogaan, except for the Chief, and probably the Prince, all thought her Kit the immortal and she the reincarnate, but mortal, queen. So, naturally, they remembered previous marriages of their Keeper of the Peace, and sought to reassure her as best they could. Of course, Duncan really did have that problem, she told herself, the problem of loving a woman only to watch her age and die.

  
There was a great deal of discussion on each side of the meeting hall, on subjects carefully separated by sex. One pleasant result of the evening discussions was a private hut with a large bed for them that night. Donna and her husband agreed to a careful practice session that evening in the meeting lodge, to the delight of the Oogaan. As there was no rain, even the old Chief came, and the place was packed around the edges, a large space cleared in the center, the fire pit of the previous night covered with sand.

  
For the mock combat, the Phantom chose a sword length of _bol_ wood, hard and heavy, for he had no sword with him, and Duncan had gone. Donna had been very reluctant to duel with her husband armed so, until he showed her how hard the _bol_ wood stick could be.

  
“Might dull your sword,” he commented, as she tried to get the blade out of the piece he had buried it in. “It’s also called stone wood, because it dulls tools so fast. It’s usually shaped by abrasion.”

  
“Okay, darling,” she conceded, finally getting her saber free. “Please don’t bruise me up too badly, I’ve plans for tonight, if you don’t wear me out like you did to Duncan.”

  
“We’ll stop when you say so, Donna,” he told her, seeing another eager family enter the lodge to try to find seats. “We don’t have to do this, you know. We can practice at home, tomorrow.”

  
“I already missed one day, dear,” she told him firmly. “Maybe this’ll teach people here that I’m not the old Queen after all. She’d never have been defeated by a single opponent, right?”

  
“Sorry to throw a monkey wrench into your logic, Dona,” he said with a smile. “But I have something of a reputation, too. If you put on a halfway decent show, it’s only going to enhance your image.”

  
“Ah, well,” she sighed, having satisfied herself that the blade was undamaged, “I guess having people think that I’m a reborn amazon queen is no different from knowing I’m the tool of a deity. Lunacy is my life, and you get to play warden to all my personalities.”

  
“All I know is that I love you, dear,” he told her, glad she hadn’t heard the discussions the Oogaan had had on her. “Not Aboma, whose existence I doubt. Not Apakura, whose existence I don’t doubt, and could do without. Only you, Donna McLaren Walker, my wife and mother of my child.”

  
“Alright, Kit,” said the kiwi, kissing him, glad he didn’t know what the women of the tribe had decided about him, or what they were likely to ask of their husbands, because of it. “Here we go, I guess. Glad I ate lightly today.”

  
Donna had indeed improved with Duncan’s help, the Phantom found, and while still slower than he, and weaker, was a fine swords woman. Their practice was an eye opener for the Oogaan, both for the skills displayed and the inhuman speed and control of the Phantom. That Donna managed to hold her own for even a little while against the masked giant was quite impressive enough for the tribesfolk. No one, of all the warriors there, thought themselves Donna’s match with such a weapon, and of course, no one could defeat the Phantom. After their practice, regarded as wonderful entertainment by the Oogaan, Donna sat panting on the sandy floor, sword cased. Her husband was not breathing any differently than normal, she saw with pride, and his request to the Prince, that she didn’t understand, brought a bundle of something to his hand.

  
“Come on, Donna,” he said to her, softly, pulling her to her feet. “We need some rest. We go home tomorrow, and tonight we need some sleep.”

  
“Not what I need,” she told him, unaware of how her strong scent aroused him. “I need a bath, darling. How do I get one?”

  
“You wait until tomorrow, Donna,” he chuckled, seeing the looks of longing and envy that came from some of the people around them. “We get to have a private little dinner for two, courtesy of our hosts. They seem quite as intent on leaving us alone for the night as the Bandar. What did you tell those ladies this afternoon?”

  
“That I didn’t want, or need, more than you for a husband,” she whispered, as they were escorted out into the cool night air. “That you’d be enough for the original Aboma, but she wasn’t that lucky. I think they kind of assumed that Duncan was the second string when we got here, but I put them straight.”

  
“I think Duncan would be happy to settle for second place,” he murmured to her as they entered their new quarters. “He’s definitely in love with you. I don’t think he even knows how much, yet.”

  
“Where were you chaps when I couldn’t find a date for a school dance?” sighed Donna, opening the bundle he’d carried as he shut the door. “Oh, look, sandwiches, I think.”

  
That night, to no one’s surprise, but to the edification of many, Donna’s pleasure was evident to those who cared to listen. Many a woman demanded more from her man that night, inspired by the sounds that could be heard from both ends of the village. Newly weds and legends alike having had a single subject in mind once they were alone.

  
The next morning, in a light drizzle, Donna and her beloved Phantom departed, in spite of pleas from many to stay until the weather cleared. The ride home was miserable, but safe, even dangerous animals denned up for the weather. Donna hoped her saddle wouldn’t suffer too much, blessing the oil Zarala had lavished on it for so long.

  
“Well, dear, here’s your bath,” teased the man in purple, not at all bothered by such thoughts. “Feel better now?”

  
“Oh, sure,” she said with a wet grin. “But how will I know when we get to the waterfall?”

  
“You won’t, dear,” he laughed, loving the way she looked, even wet, cold and tired. Tim seemed oblivious to the rain, only shaking his head occasionally to rid his ears of water. "We’re not going that way. We’ll get there sooner, this way.”

  
“What way is that?” she asked with a smile. “By doing the back stroke?”

  
“No, by going straight in,” he told her, as they came up a hill, the hooves of their horses ankle deep in thick mulch. “The rain won’t leave any tracks to be followed, even though it looks as if we’ll be leaving a roadmap.”

  
That afternoon, warmed by a hot bath, dried by the bedroom stove, Donna read more of the life of her husband’s father. The drizzle outside was showing signs of becoming worse, and the Bandar villages were now virtually deserted. All the Bandar had moved to what Donna thought of as winter quarters, the caves in the same cliff as she now lived in. All that remained were the things that monsoons and heavy winds would not harm, or that were easily replaced. In spite of the early hour, the smells of cooking meat, stewing vegetables and that of various baking things filled the rain heavy air. Donna was thinking of what to make for their dinner, when she felt the now familiar presence of the man who had written the book she held.

  
“Good afternoon, sir,” she said, looking around toward the feeling. “Or, rainy afternoon, anyway. Kit’s in the armory, I think.”

  
“Oh, call me ‘Dad’ or ‘Kit’ or ‘Senior’ or something,” said the ghost, his solid appearance and voice a measure of how much she had adapted to this odd and satisfying life. “Sir is so submissive sounding. Not you at all, Donna. And I came to talk to you, not my tasteful son. I see you’re reading about me again. Didn’t I tell you my father was more interesting?”

  
“So you did, and I don’t care for your characterization of the stories as boring,” she smiled. “They are at least as amazing as Kit’s. As a book reviewer, you’re not much use, I’m afraid. How have you been, uh, Dad?”

  
“Donna, dear,” he chuckled, seeming to walk into her direct line of sight, “I’m dead, what’s going to change with me?”

  
“How should I know?” asked Donna, blushing a little. “I’ve never been that way. What do you want to talk to me about? Did I do something bad?”

  
“Daughter, I’m not some kind of ghostly conscience police officer,” he laughed, looking completely at ease in his silken robe of dark purple, as insubstantial as the rest of him. “I’m here to see how you’re doing. Checking up on my grandchild, you know. Passing on a little information, as well. Your spirit guardian says the Emperor Djembe is bad news, and to be careful of him. Says it’s storing up manna for you, in case of need, which sounds serious to me. Oh, and not to be afraid of storms or lightning.”

  
“I’ve never been afraid of storms,” Donna said with some indignation. “And I’d rather depend on Tim, Kit and me, in an emergency, thanks. I don’t like the idea of being in debt to a god, you know.”

  
“I know,” the older man said, still looking as powerful and able as his living son. Donna supposed that a ghost could look any way it wanted, after all, and this one knew how much enjoyment she took in the beauty of the male body. “But it’s not really like that, Donna. It’s much more of a symbiosis than a borrower-lender sort of relationship.”

  
“Well, at least you didn’t tell me I had to go talk with them, or it, again,” sighed the blond, not much reassured. “Do you know anything about the New Emperor? Duncan McLeod’s gone to see what he can find out, you know, but I doubt he’s got far, what with all the rain.”

  
“Just a minute,” the distinguished-looking ghost said, and vanished. After several seconds, he reappeared just as suddenly, looking amused. “Good call, dear. He’s making slow work of it, but he’s still moving. When this storm clears, he’ll make better time. Miserable time of year to need to get anywhere fast.”

  
“It wasn’t all that much fun going slowly,” said the current Phantom, walking in to stand behind his wife. “I can see Donna’s all tuned in with you, now, Dad. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  
“It just seemed more important to ‘tune in’, as you say, with my daughter-in-law,” said the ghost, his face very much like his son’s, but with greyed out brown hair, rather than the black stuff Kit had. Donna had become quite fond of him in the month her lover had been gone. He was safer company than Duncan McLeod, and had many stories of his son’s childhood to tell her. “She’s quite a woman, son. Treat her right or you’ll never hear the end of it from me.”

  
“Did I treat you right, Donna?” he asked softly, bending to talk softly into her left ear. “If not, I can always try again until I get it right.”

  
“Later, dear,” she said, turning her head to kiss him. “I was just trying to decide what to have for dinner. Stew would be good, but I’ve started too late. Soup, maybe, or baked potatoes.”

  
“I’ll take care of dinner, darling,” he told her with a smile, “if you wash up after?”

  
“Deal, Kit,” she said promptly, wondering what it would be. “And I’ll throw in dessert, afterward, right?”

  
“I think that’s my cue to fade away,” said the spirit with a chuckle. “It would have been really nice if I could have done this while I was alive.”

  
“Come back soon, Dad,” said Donna, a little self consciously. “I like your father an awful lot, Kit. He’s a really sweet guy. Not like the ghosts I’d always heard about as a child.”

  
“It probably depends on what sort of person you were when you were alive,” her husband told her, kissing her again. “And, actually, I think he’s mellowed a little. He used to be quite intense.”

  
“Well, after you’re dead, I guess things don’t have quite the urgency they did when you were alive,” commented Donna, kissing him back. “He was very informative about your childhood, you know. Told me all about you and Heloise’ trip to the Maze Caverns, your expedition to Mawitaan, the time you got poor Guran stuck in that hollow tree. You two were quite the handful.”

  
“Parents do seem to enjoy telling other people about their children’s most embarrassing escapades after the children are grown, don’t they?” he said, turning to leave. “I’ll go get dinner, Donna. You want to eat in the kitchen or somewhere else?”

  
“Kitchen’s fine, dear,” she said smiling. “How soon shall I come out? And will you want help?”

  
“Oh, no, I’ll come get you,” he said, leaving, still as silent as his ghostly parent. Donna finished the page she had been reading and marked it, then carefully put the folio volume away. The smell of vellum and dust was exciting now, having had nights of nail-biting tension while waiting for her lover to return. It had taken a week for the ghost of the Ghost Who Walks to manifest himself to the point of speaking to her, and he had not appeared every night. Donna had often spent hours in the room undisturbed, with only the tales of her father-in-law or her husband.

  
Darkness no longer frightened her, she thought, seeing how the light was fading outside. Night was the element of her man, and of his father. The things in the darkness were no longer all unknown, malicious things, but possible allies, even friends. Devil, reluctant to go out in the rain if he did not have to, made room for her on the stone bench in the entryway. The two of them sat in companionable silence, content to watch the rainy night set in. Her husband returned, fittingly, with full night.

  
“Dinner’s ready, Donna,” he said, smiling to see her with the big wolf’s head in her lap. “Keep next to the cliff, and you won’t get very wet. The rain’s slacked off a little.”

  
“Nothing a pot of hot tea won’t fix,” she said cheerfully, rubbing the big dog wolf’s ears. “You can stay inside and keep dry, you hedonist, you. Good boy, then.”

  
After a meal of Kraft dinner and canned soup, which Donna considered perfect for the kind of day it was, the dishes were done. Dessert, which Donna had promised her husband, had nothing to do with food. Sated with each other, warm and content, they slept late the next morning, emerging into weak sunlight, a break in the rains.


	9. Chapter 9

“O Ghost Who Walks,” Guran greeted them, “Lady Donna, there’s flooding in Dakaan. They ask for help. Should I send a reply?”

  
“I’ll go saddle the horses,” Donna said, with only a glance at her husband’s face. “Can Zarala come? She can take care of the horses if we’re busy.”

  
“If her mother says she can.” sighed the Phantom, already worried about what might happen to his wife. At least Zarala would be an extra set of eyes to watch out for her. He knew it would be useless to forbid her to go with him.

  
The three rode out before noon, the tiny Zarala on Brownie, her weapons cased against rain, but in reach. Donna had added several items to her normal gear, in case of rain, including a lot of sturdy rope. The wet ground caused them only slight delays, and they stayed in a dry cave that evening that was often used by travellers, by the signs. The next day found them in Dakaan, a place that Donna thought needed a serious tree planting program. The people had deforested too much area, and now nothing held back the water when it rained hard.

  
The first two days were spent rescuing people from flooded houses, built, in Donna’s opinion, too close to the river. Rain hampered their efforts but did not stop them. Donna and her beloved Phantom directed the local tribes in the making of sandbags, placing them, and planning better ways to care for the land. Donna was obeyed as quickly as the Phantom, especially after her dramatic rescue of a child from floodwaters. The Phantom had been pulling the rest of the family from a torrent of muddy liquid, and the little boy had lost his footing. The Dakaanese could hardly believe that a woman could rescue someone so, but Donna had not actually been hard put to do it.

  
Zarala, too small to do the work of shifting sandbags or changing water courses, enhanced her image as Donna’s bodyguard. Silent, speaking only Bandarese, weapon always ready, the tiny girl was given a wide berth, respected by the tall, mostly heavy Dakaans. A leopard, driven down from its jungle home by flooding, tried to make a meal of two Dakaan children as they worked next to Donna one morning. Zarala’s arrow dropped it in mid-spring, twitching and dead. After that, the local people were very careful to treat Donna with respect, and pretend not to see the tiny girl at all. That was fine with Zarala, practicing her role as Danh-seh, the shadow assassin.

  
They finally left, several weeks after they had arrived, with heartfelt thanks ringing in their ears, Though damp, and even Donna was chilled, they felt that they had done well. They would need to return in the dry season to make certain that bad old habits had not been taken up again, but for now, the area seemed under control. Dikes and levees, ground cover and terracing had been discussed and taught, even Donna’s tree-planting campaign had been advocated. She had gained the new name of Lady of the Trees, in honor of both her ease in their branches and her stalwart defense of them. Donna felt that the Tree People might have objections to her new name, but reasoned that maybe they would not hear about it. Her husband, the Keeper of the Peace, did not disabuse her of this naive notion, knowing far better than Donna how fast stories travelled in the Jungle.

  
Their return to the Deep Woods was happy and, to Donna’s distinct pleasure, dry. She promptly spent an hour in the hot bath water soaking out weeks of mud and aches. Their feast that night included chicken fixed six different ways, and three different kinds of pies. Zarala was a sought after source of information, and consulted by Jula, Muzi and Old Man Moze. Other children deferred to her, even her older siblings, and many of the adults treated her as one of them.

  
Two days later, with Donna’s introduction to firearms only a day old, there was a report of bandits besieging Trader Joe’s compound, and the Phantom rode out again. Tula explained to Donna that the compound was actually a small village, a sort of outpost used by hunters, Jean Dumont, naturalists and even Dr. Dorn. On the bank of a river, the beer-loving Joe used an old motor launch and his many progeny to bring in supplies to his business, a sideline to his beer. It seemed that Joe, who’s real name everyone had forgotten, was everyone’s friend, a figurehead for his wife, a strong willed, shrewd business woman.

  
“And why would anyone lay siege to such a place?” wondered Donna, picturing it as a sort of country grocery store. “I mean, it seems a bit of trouble for not much gain, especially if the bandits know Kit’s been there before.”

  
“It is the only place outside of the coast and Mawitaan that things like guns, ammunition, batteries, canned food, radios, cameras, film and the like may be found,” shrugged Tula. “If one desires these things, perhaps it would seem reasonable. I would have stolen only what I had to have, if I could not pay for the things, were I that kind of person. Good people would have traded meat or labor, so they must be bad people.”

  
“That’s what bothers me,” Donna grumbled, mounting Tim with her practice bow in one hand. She was up to mounted archery now, good enough to use the Oogaan bow on foot, but not on horseback. Silent and similarly armed, Zarala already sat on Brownie’s back, dressed in her now favored color of black. “I hope Kit’s careful.”

  
Zarala, raised with a bow in her hand practically from birth, had proved swift to master the mounted version. Brownie had become nearly an extension of her own body, quick, silent, easily guided with body position and legs. Donna was sure the tiny thoroughbred was well on her way to being as much Zarala’s as Tim was hers. The pony was ever in the pygmy girl’s vicinity, alert for a call from her tiny mistress.

  
The Phantom returned a week later, the deep gash on his left arm evident only after he’d disrobed to bathe in the hot water with his wife. The story of the capture, one by one, of two dozen cut throats was eventually dragged from him by the kiwi, while she carefully examined and treated the wound. She pampered him with fruit and meat, then made love to him until he slept beneath her in exhaustion, followed quickly by his wife.

  
The next few days were pleasant, for a heavy storm kept all indoors, virtually isolating Donna, Kit, and Devil, even from the Bandar. Donna left her newly bandaged love in the Chronicle room, meaning to make the bed. In the brightly lit room she found one other, a being who didn’t mind rain at all.

  
“Dad!” she exclaimed in surprise, seeing the ghost sitting in the suede leather armchair. “How have you been? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  
“I’ve been keeping an eye on Duncan, my dear,” the spirit told her with a smile. “He’s quite good at that spy stuff, did you know?”

  
“No, tell me all about it while I make the bed,” she requested, picking up scattered clothing first.

  
“Don’t know why you bother,” he chuckled indulgently. “Well, let’s see, McLeod finally got up to the Emperor’s territory a week or so ago, and he’s been nosing around on the sly. He’s going to get himself caught, if he’s not careful, but he may mean to do that. Keeps talking to you in his sleep. Does my boy know the Highlander loves you, too?”

  
“Yes,” sighed Donna, straightening the pillows. “And I could learn to love him, all too easily, I’m afraid. That’s it, actually. I’m afraid to hurt Kit. And if I tell Duncan, or even encourage him, I might hurt Kit. I’d rather let Duncan pine in unrequited passion than hurt Kit. I’m not Aboma, to go around collecting husbands like seashells, you know.”

  
“Ah, your loyalty is not in question, daughter,” protested the shade, raising his hands in surrender. “And neither is Duncan’s. No matter what happens, or seems to happen, remember that Duncan McLeod is your friend and ally. He’d no more turn on you than Heloise would.”

  
“Hmm,” said Donna, smoothing the bedspread out and laying their robes across the foot of the bed. “Do you go talk to her like this? I mean, can she see you the way Kit can?”

  
“Yes, if I try hard,” he admitted with a frown. “It’s harder with her, for some reason, but I can do it. She doesn’t like it, I think, and my timing was bad the first instance. She’d rather think of the world as all nice and neat and explainable, and I ruin that concept for her. Not that she doesn’t take my help when she can get it, you know. Practical sort, my little girl.”

  
“Then why isn’t it hard with me?” asked Donna, sitting on the trunk beside the bed. “Or is it?”

  
“I think that atua of yours is partly responsible for that,” he speculated, steepling his fingers meditatively. “And if so, it’s likely that I’m not the only one you could talk to on this side. I’m just more used to it than most.”

  
“You mean I’m likely to start seeing things?” she asked in alarm. “Oh, please, tell them not to do that except when I’m alone. I mean, like now, not when I’m with Kit. People already think I’m the mythical queen Aboma, you know. I don’t want them thinking that I’m talking to spirits or anything, even though I am.”

  
“I’ll put out the word,” he agreed, smiling. “I should tell you that there really was a Queen Aboma, and that some spirits do choose to reincarnate, I don’t think you have any soul but your own, however. You feel too, let’s see, fresh, modern, uncomplicated, something like that.”

  
“Thanks, I think,” she said with a smile. “Now, if only I could convince everyone else. Prophecy and legend can be wearing.”

  
“Don’t I know it,” he smiled back at her, making her blush. Who was she to complain of that sort of thing to him? “But I didn’t say the prophecy wasn’t true, dear, only that I don’t think you’re literally Aboma’s spirit. That’s not what the legend of Aboma says, you see, though it’s been seen that way by many. You simply are being used to fit the circumstances by forces beyond your control, human and non-human.”

  
“So there is to be a great trial for Kit to face,” she said slowly, measuring his words carefully. “One he wouldn’t survive without my help? That’s a really scary thought, Dad.”

  
“I personally would have preferred that it happen after the child had been born,” agreed the ghost, nodding. “But I’m afraid it may be this Djembe character. One of the reasons I’m sticking so close to Duncan, you see.”

  
“Is he alright with all this rain?” asked Donna, having visions of the Highlander sopping wet in a ditch somewhere, watching camps full of soldiers.

  
“Fine, dear,” he told her, rising from the chair and giving a very proper bow. “And I’ll just go back to watching him. He’s quite frustrated at not yet getting you any information, especially as the people subject to the New Emperor all seem to expect you to either marry or fight him.”

  
“I wish I knew where that Djembe guy came from,” Donna said thoughtfully. “This sort of thing sounds more like medieval or renaissance Europe than Africa. It’s like Mussolini declaring himself Caesar, only odder. And is it normal to have so much trouble in the rainy season? I’d just kind of hole up and play pachisi all season, but there’s all these things for him to take care of.”

  
“Most rainy seasons here are quiet,” the spirit told her with a smile. “But now and then there’s a busy one. I usually ended up out of the country then, it seemed, on other business. Those rustlers in Texas, the Nazis in the Mediteranean, the Vultures in Nicaragua, that sort of thing.”

  
“Don’t tell me all that,” Donna protested mildly. “I haven’t got that far in your books yet. Go keep an eye on Duncan, then. Although, if he gets in trouble, I don’t know what we can do about it.”

  
“He’s been getting in and out of trouble on his own since before my great grandfather was born,” snorted the spirit, fading. “Don’t worry too much, daughter.”

  
“I’m pretty sure,” Donna told herself when he was gone, “that that’s my job. I’m a wife, pregnant and living with someone who risks his life routinely. Some one has to worry.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> short, but I still don't have much of a handle on what chapters should be like. next one is longer

After the rain stopped, Kit’s arm healing well, but still bandaged, the drums brought another message, this time from people Donna hadn’t met. There was an argument about the rulership of the Ndali tribe, whose chief was dying. Donna insisted on coming along, if only to tend to her husband’s injury. Zarala stayed behind, not worried about Donna’s safety, for the Ndali were mostly peaceful and fairly close.

  
The pair arrived the next day in the village of the Chief of the Ndali, Moomba. The place was built on tall posts to keep the houses off the ground, which was a bit swampy. Donna thought the places regular fire traps, but said nothing of her opinion. The old Chief, a withering creature who looked eighty or so to Donna, still greeted them with honor, housed them in a private stilt house, and made certain that their horses were able to shelter beneath it. The majority of the people spoke a kind of broken but understandable English pidgin, as a colonial outpost had once been a major employer. The Ndalis normal language was the same as the Oogaan, and Donna began her lessons early, surrounded by the women of the tribe. The Phantom was trapped with the men, listening politely to endless genealogies and resumes of potential successors to the chief.

  
“And what do you think of the men who might be Chief?” asked Donna of her companions, all seated on mats and furs in a large open sided hut. The wall on one side had been rolled back to let the sun in, and they all took advantage of it, sipping tea and gossiping. “Are any of them good?”

  
“Ah, sighed the old woman who was the Chief’s sister, and thus head woman, “none are very good choices, I fear. The younger ones do not think, the older ones do not act. Why is it so hard for men to do both?”

  
“It’s their, uh, hormones,” Donna told them, as they looked puzzled. She patted her crotch and they all looked enlightened, many giggling behind their hands, most nodding in agreement. “Men have their brains connected to their, uh, equipment, somehow. They usually can’t seem to think without them. Only the really good ones can, I think. Not like women, even though they think we don’t have brains, often enough.”

  
“If you asked me,” sniffed the old lady, Shasti, “women would make better leaders, except we’re too busy for that. How can you find time between babies and crops and cooking and clothes and cleaning? If a man had to do all that, he’d die of exhaustion. And if you point that out, most get very offended.”

  
“That’s maybe why England’s greatest rulers were all queens,” said Donna thoughtfully. “Elizabeth, Victoria, the present Elizabeth. No, uh, parts to get in the way of brains, yes?”

  
“And your husband, dear?” asked the older woman with a sly, toothless grin. “What about him?”

  
“He’s a rare man,” said Donna, blushing, but proud. “Can think and act, both. And enough of everything a woman could ever want.”

  
“Ah, well equipped, we say,” said the old lady with a laugh, pouring more tea for her guest. “As any woman with eyes can tell.”

  
“Yes,” sighed Donna, her pleasure evident to all, who found the blushes of the very pale woman quite telling. “But who should be Chief, then? I mean, out of everyone, not just who they’re talking about. Can’t always find someone in the direct bloodline, you know.”

  
“Gobus would be good,” was the opinion of the women. “And his wife would make sure he kept out of trouble. Fine woman, Tallto, daughter of Moomba. Could have been Chief, had she been male.”

  
“Make her Chief, then,” said Donna simply. “Just because she’s a woman, if she’s got what it takes, use her. Waste of time if you can’t decide on a man.”

  
“It is against tradition,” the old woman said, pondering. “But you are Aboma-Konalh, and Aboma is a far older tradition than the Ndali tribe. I will discuss it with my brother tonight. Nothing will be decided over there today, Ghost Who Walks or no. Now, tell us of your wedding.”

  
In the end, several days later, Gobus, and his wife, the middle-aged Tallto, were decided on as the old Chief’s joint successors, due mostly to the tribe’s women. Pressure was brought to bear in the bedrooms, kitchens and homes, and the men, confused, quickly came to realize that they had best agree. Their rewards for agreeing were pleasant surprises, Donna having touched on the theory of positive and negative reinforcement. The obvious pleasures the two honored guests had taken in each other each night had gone far toward hardening the women’s resolve and melting their men’s resistance. Devil and the horses beneath their stilt house had been enough to convince Kit to let down his guard, much to Donna’s delight.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a little action, sort of.

Unaware that they had just begun the Ndali’s transformation into a much more egalitarian form of government, the two lovers left, the day blustery but clear. With no real worries about speed, they wandered close to the Great Gorge, a deep, roaring canyon, famed as a dividing line between halves of the Jungle. Kit showed her one of the few ways across it, or down into it, really, that existed. In good weather only, he emphasized, for the torrent at its gullet was lethal in the rainy season, even for him. Because it was bare rock and a barrier to travel, there were wide spaces along the verge that allowed them to ride side by side, though the river shouting through the rocky deeps made conversation difficult.

  
Only hours from home, they turned back into the jungle, Devil at their heels. It was from the trees that danger struck, an orange demon of fur and fangs. It bore the Phantom from Hero’s back to the earth, a huge male tiger, fangs searching for his throat. Donna wheeled Tim toward the tumbling pair and decided quickly to leave Tim out of it. Devil snarled and snapped at the rolling fighters, but was ignored. To Donna’s surprise, the tiger was thrown off by the Phantom, great gashes from talons in his shoulders and thighs. Donna and Devil took their chance, the wolf sinking his jaws into the striped flank, Donna thrusting her sharp spear into the ribs, neither more than annoying the big cat. The Phantom came to his feet, back to the gorge, and the savage cat leapt at him, shaking off both the wolf and Donna as if they had not existed.

  
Donna saw the big tiger hit her husband, and bear him to the ground again, but the Phantom somehow turned that fall into a roll. With the cat’s claws and teeth scrabbling at his torn flesh, the big man somersaulted backwards, feet in the furry white belly of the beast. His hands holding off the huge jaws from his throat, he flung the creature off the cliff edge, into the Great Gorge below. Unfortunately, the talons of the tiger’s fore paws had a good grip on his shoulder, and the Phantom went over the edge as well.

  
Donna dropped her spear and flung herself at the cliff edge, shock making her body cold, sluggish. On her belly she saw that just below her, the Phantom clung to an outcrop of rock. She reached down to him and took his wrist, but could not pull his weight up by herself. His body was covered with deep scores from the tiger, and she could feel his grip weakening, blood loss taking its toll.

  
“Hold on to me, Kit,” she begged, willing her grip to be strong enough. “Don’t you let go of me, dammit. Use me to climb up, hurry!”

  
“I’m not sure I can, Donna,” he told her, trying to do as she commanded, wanting to. “Something’s wrong with my leg. You’ll have to pull me up or let go.”

  
“Don’t say that, Kit,” she gasped, wishing for just a flash of that inhuman strength she had had the first time she had saved his life. “Tim. Come here, Tim!”

  
The bay came nervously to his mistress, dropping his head to nose her supine body. The reins fell down his neck to lay looped on her shoulder. Donna’s left hand found them, the jade and gold bracelet glowing in the weak sunlight. A grip like steel held her lover’s wrist, and she took a similar hold on the leather reins.

  
“Back, Tim,” she told the horse, feeling strength pulse inside her hands and arms. “Get back, boy,”

  
The bay gelding put his head back up, finding his reins still held, but his mistress still urged him back. He backed a step, his neck stretching, trying to obey two imperatives at once, then chose one. He pulled his head back, rewarded with praise, and further demands. Donna was able to get her body into a crouch at the edge of the cliff, using her own torso as a sort of fulcrum to raise her beloved’s weakening body from its perilous perch. The bay felt a sudden shift in his bridle, one of the cheek pieces giving way from the strain. The thoroughbred clamped his teeth tight on the rounded steel bit and kept pulling, drawing his adored rider away from the cliff on which she knelt, and her husband over the lip of the gorge.

  
Donna dropped the reins and dragged her husband away from the edge as soon as she had the opportunity, her mind already planning. He was still conscious, but not able to move very well, his shoulders and thighs torn and blood soaked. With frantic speed, Donna used every scrap of cloth she wore as makeshift bandages, trying to stem the blood flow, especially on his right thigh and shoulder. Tim stood with his bit hanging from his bridle, watching, alert as the big dog wolf beside him.

  
“Hero,” she called to the stallion, and had him lay down next to them. She took the bit from Tim’s bridle, stuffed it and the reins in a saddle pouch and with the Phantom’s barely conscious help, got him on his horse. She mounted behind the bloody Phantom, holding him on with her own body. Blood already stained the stallion’s hide as she gave him the command to get up.

  
“Tim, come on, Tim,” she called, and kicked the big horse into a run. Even carrying double, and taking care to take no path that would cause his riders trouble, the big white nearly outran the gelding. Tim stayed in sight of them, however, catching up at open stretches, the smell of blood and his rider’s worry and fear much more urgent than whip or spur. This time, the bay didn’t hesitate at the waterfall, plunging through on the stallion’s heels.

  
Their frantic pace conveyed their urgency to those Bandar in sight. Activity exploded around them as Hero came to a careful halt before the Skull Cave. Donna had dozens of willing hands to help her burden to the ground, and soon all three of the medical experts had taken charge of the now-comatose Phantom. Zarala led Tim off to cool him out, as Donna took Hero’s tack from him with trembling hands. The big white went off to accompany the bay, who was casting worried looks back at his mistress.

  
“Lady Donna,” said Tula, alarmed, “sit down before you fall! You’re pale as milk!”

  
“I’m fine,” said Donna taking a light blanket from someone and absently wrapping herself in it. “How is Kit? He lost so much blood!”

  
“He will be fine, if we can stop the bleeding,” said Dorn as he hastily checked Donna, relieved to see that she was uninjured, even if she was covered in blood. “There seems to be only muscle damage, and possibly a torn shoulder. But he may need blood. He is A positive, and so am I, but most of the Bandar are type B and incompatible. What is your blood type, Lady Donna?”

  
“O negative,” she said with a flash of relief, quickly overcome by more worry. “Universal donor. Do you have the equipment to do it?”

  
“You would be surprised at how well equipped we are,” he told her, turning back to the now surrounded body on the grass. Donna sat down on the lowest step of the Skull Throne, her eyes never leaving the knot of people that writhed around her husband. She must have gone into a state of trance, because the next thing she knew, Zarala was peering anxiously into her eyes, asking her something. Beyond her, the Phantom, now swathed in bandages and laying on a sort of lashed together cot, was being carried inside by eight or ten grim-looking Bandar warriors.

  
“What?” she said dully, unable to remember what the tiny girl had asked. “I wasn’t listening.”

  
“I said, are you alright?” the pygmy child repeated. “I guess not. Mama, come help Lady Donna. She’s not herself, and she feels cold, and she’s shaking.”

  
“No, I’m fine,” she protested, watching the motionless body as it was carried into the gaping jaws of the Skull Cave. Donna shuddered at the image, her lover swallowed up as if by Death itself. “I have to go with him. They’ll need my blood.”

  
“You need to be clean and warm, first,” Jula told her gently, feeling her brow. “Doctor Dorn will not take your blood while you are in this state, Lady Donna. He will use his own first, in any case, so you must come with me. Tula will come to tell us when you are needed.”

  
“But I want to go with him, she insisted, having to try twice to stand up. “He needs me, Zarala, tell her, Kit needs me.”

  
“Yes, Lady Donna,” agreed the tiny girl, helping the tall blond to her feet. “But you’ve got his blood all over you, and even in your hair. If he wakes up and sees you like that, he’ll think it was you who were hurt, and that could be bad for him. Best to get clean and warm so you won’t worry him, right?”

  
“Oh,” she said, her tired brain unable to refute this logic, though she wanted to. She let the two Bandar women lead her into the Skull Cave, shuddering at the blood stained grass where he’d lain. Scraps of purple silk, stained dark with blood, still lay unheeded around the lawn, along with hastily discarded wads of cotton, gauze and surgical tape.

  
The two gave up trying to get any reasonable response from the naked woman, instead treating her like a small child, nearly as helpless as her husband. Often, the tiny Zarala could get the blond to cooperate with the simple logic she used on horses, talking to Donna much as she did with them. Jula’s gentle directions were more often ignored than obeyed, but eventually they got her bathed in the warm waters of the bath. The warmth soon stopped her involuntary shaking, the shock state broken on a physical, if not an emotional level.

  
They dressed her in a warm robe and fur slippers, then led her cautiously toward the master bedroom, ready for reactions ranging from violence to fainting. Instead, Donna crept carefully to a place where she could watch without being in anyone’s way. Someone had lit the stove for warmth, and the makeshift bed lay near it. Dorn was sitting near his patient, slowly flexing his fist, a tube of dark red connecting his arm to the Phantom’s. Muzi and Dandoli were carefully watching both of the men, Muzi counting softly under her breath, Dandoli feeling the carotid artery of their patient.

  
“Enough, Dorn,” the tiny midwife told him, finally. “No more for now. Jula, take him out and make sure he drinks and eats and then goes to sleep. We may need more blood from him later. Any change, Dandoli?”

  
“Stronger, I think,” said the old shaman, as the bead bedecked woman bandaged Dorn’s arm and disconnected the Phantom from him. The tube was left taped to the deeply scratched right arm, ready to be hooked up to a fresh donor. “Yes, definitely a little stronger.”

  
“Is he going to be alright?” asked Donna, her voice steady, but quiet. “There was so much blood, he’s so still.”

  
“I think he will survive,” said the witch doctor with a nod, his hand still on the silk covered throat, but his wise old eyes on the subdued woman. “Tiger, was it?”

  
“Yes, it jumped on him from the trees,” Donna whispered, edging near enough to touch his still-masked face with her finger tips. “I couldn’t stop it, but he threw it into the Great Gorge. Why is he so cold?”

  
“He has lost much blood,” the old midwife told her, examining the blond briefly. “Shock is usually the result. That is why he is here, near the fire, and why we will cover him with furs and watch him closely. If I thought him in peril of his life, I might use blood from you, but you need to rest as well.”

  
“If it will help,” Donna said, her voice cracking slightly, “give it to him now. I can rest later.”

  
“Very well, Lady Donna,” said the midwife with a sigh. “But first have a cup of hot tea. It will keep you from going back into shock. One invalid is enough.”

  
“Alright,” agreed Donna, taking the cup she was handed, unsuspecting. Five minutes later she was being tucked into the huge bed, not even twitching for the entire night. The two pygmy medics and the loyal Zarala took turns watching them both. Muzi took the first watch, using it to carefully clean each uninjured patch of skin on the battered body, removing the scraps of silk left on legs and torso. When Dandoli took his turn, he found their patient clad only in neat, white bandages, hood and mask, and battered skin. The fire in the iron stove kept him warm, and had dried his skin from its shocky moistness. The old witch doctor tenderly covered the young man’s body with a light blanket, relieved for both of the sleeping couple that the tiger had not clawed nearer the center of his body. The great claws could easily have eviscerated the Phantom, or done damage enough to ensure the end of the Line, should Donna miscarry.


	12. Chapter 12

Zarala watched, silent and still, thinking hard until morning. Jula came to take her place, and the tiny girl sped off to find her uncle, the Chief. Dr. Dorn, still a little light headed, consulted with his colleagues, and announced that their patient’s condition was improving. Relief was evident on many faces, but yet the area was still and quiet, as if to keep from disturbing them. Donna woke first, finding Zarala curled up on the unused side of the bed, and with a clear head, she went immediately to her beloved’s side.

  
He was still comatose, his masked head pillowed carefully on the small bed, laying on furs that were easily removed and cleaned, another pile ready to replace them. She knelt next to him, heedless of her nudity in the warmth of the chamber, and touched his cheek with delicate care. Jula handed her a gourd of fruit juice and a piece of bread, then draped her robe over her, almost as worried as Donna.

  
“You must eat before you can give blood,” the head woman told her softly. “Doctor Dorn says that he improves, and most of the bleeding has stopped. If infection and fever can be avoided, he will certainly recover.”

  
“Yes, ma’am,” agreed Donna, sitting on the stone floor to do as she was bidden. She probably never knew what she ate, Jula thought with sympathy, taking the empty gourd from her. “Can I see the injuries, I mean, can I look at him?”

  
“He is your husband, Lady Donna,” the head woman told her kindly. “All you will see are bandages and bruises. Nothing, uh, important was damaged beyond repair. Let me do it for you,”

  
Donna watched closely as the motherly pygmy drew back the light blanket, patterned in green and blue. Donna saw that there were large bandages on both shoulders, some of his chest, and both hips and thighs, a few others on his lower arms where he’d fended off the seeking jaws. With trembling hands she touched the warm, bruised flesh of his muscled belly, feeling the rise and fall of his lungs, living and steady. A light cloth lay across his loins, serving no purpose but modesty, she found to her vast relief and mild amusement. She replaced it, and helped Jula, who had studiously stared elsewhere, to cover him again.

  
“And when will he wake up, do they think?” she asked, feeling much better than she should have. Large muscle groups were often more easily repaired than smaller, more delicate ones, such as hands, she knew, as well as organs. He looked rather like an American football player carried off the field, she thought, with all the padding. She was careful to touch only his hand, the back scratched and raw-looking, but hardly even worth calling an injury, compared to the rest of him.

  
“They do not know,” admitted Jula reluctantly, seeing her daughter awake and alert behind the blond. “They would be happy to find other compatible donors, and are trying now, but the healers think the odds are against them.”

  
“Negative blood types are rare,” Donna said absently, eyes on his face, seeing the pallor of his skin, the slight stubble on his cheeks. “Only about fifteen or twenty people out of a hundred are negative. My blood type is O negative, and can go to anyone, though only six of a hundred have my sort. Kit and Dr. Dorn are likely the only ones of A negative in the area. If one of the Bandar have a blood type, probably all of you do, since small populations are often homogeneous.”

  
“Lady Donna, how do you know that?” asked the tiny girl behind her, curious. “How can you think of that now?”

  
“I can’t think of anything else, Zarala,” Donna said quietly. “And I once did a paper on it for my ethnography class. Why couldn’t he have been AB positive?”

  
“Because he is not,” said Jula firmly. “It does not matter now. Between you and Dorn, there will be enough for him, even if there are no others who can help. If we must, we will have Lady Heloise bring what he needs. Now, I will go and get you clothing. You will feel better once you are dressed.”

  
“She’s wrong,” said Zarala softly, one small hand on her friend’s shoulder. “You’ll feel better once he wakes up. Can I leave you alone, Lady Donna, or shall I stay? I was going to check Tim to see if he was sore, but he won’t mind waiting.”

  
“Yes, he will,” Donna sniffed, feeling tears running hot down her face. “Don’t worry, I won’t do anything silly, partner. Go tell him I’ll see him when I can. He helped save Kit, you know, again. But I broke his bridle doing it.”

  
“I know, I found the pieces,” she told the blond, not saying what else she had found out. “When I come back, you have to tell me everything, Lady Donna. Right?”

  
“Right,” sniffed the kiwi, trying to hold herself together. Had Kit felt this way when she’d been hurt, she wondered, even as Zarala scampered off, silent on her bare feet. He told her once, that his worst nightmare had become the sight of her falling from her horse after a Mussanga cannibal had struck her with a club. Now she knew her nightmares would include his attack by a tiger who could not be stopped. Why had the creature not turned on Devil or her?

  
Jula dressed the New Zealander as she would have a manikin, with about as much cooperation. She might have saved herself the trouble, for as much attention as Donna paid her. Still a little tired, Dr. Dorn, having given too much the night before, sat and supervised the blood transfusion. Donna was allowed to give her beloved far less than she thought she should, both because of her lighter weight and her pregnancy. Argument did nothing to convince her keepers, and as she felt rather disconnected to reality afterward, they were, she admitted, probably correct. The two Bandar healers managed to get her out into the weak sunlight for long enough to feed her and get the story from her. What she found out, in turn, gave her a new focus for her thoughts, and a new purpose to occupy her.

  
She told the story dully, omitting nothing, answering questions listlessly, her thoughts still inside with her lover. Many of the Bandar crowded around her where she sat, thoughtfully chosen by Guran to be out of sight of the still-bloody grass.

  
“It happened just as she has said, o Chief,” the hunter next to Zarala said at last. Donna recognized the man as Zarala’s uncle, Rumal, a mighty warrior and hunter, who had been teaching the tiny girl weaponry. “Never have I even heard of a tiger leaping on a rider, or even an animal, from a tree, yet this one did. More importantly, it was in that tree for some time, as if waiting. And after it first broke from the Ghost Who Walks, it did not turn on either of it’s tormentors. It should have been diverted, it’s attention split, at least, but it was not. I find this ominous, even a challenge, of sorts. I think someone trained that tiger to kill our great friend.”

  
“What?” gasped Donna, coming out of her lethargy as if awakened with cold water. “Who? Why?”

  
“If we knew who or why,” Guran said grimly, “we would know much else. I agree, this smells of a trap, one the Phantom and his wife barely escaped. If I had to guess, I would choose this New Emperor, Djembe, for such egotistical men are prone to such dramatic methods. I would guess, also, that he now will think your husband out of the way, and you ripe for his suit, Lady Donna.”

  
“He may rot in Hell before I’d consider it, even were Kit dead,” Donna growled, her eyes and voice hard as steel. “So, you think this Djembe set this up, Chief Guran? He seeks to put Kit out of the way long enough to take me for his own, and my supposed power and influence, as well?”

  
“That is how I would read it,” answered the Chief reluctantly. “He cannot get you here, Lady Donna, be assured of that. We will kill anyone who comes here for you, or anything.”

  
“Thank you,” she said, still firm and sure of herself. “But that is just what I want to happen. Think. The drums have called Kit and I out many times this rainy season, haven’t they? Surely such activity as bandits and border raids are not common during the rains. Each time either of us went anywhere, the drums told the world, yes?”

  
“All in the jungle who know the language of the talking drums, yes,” agreed the Chief, thoughtfully, seeing how the tiger might have been placed. “And you think that some of these incidents might have been manufactured to test Djembe’s mastery of the code, or the Phantom’s reactions?”

  
“Yes, I do,” she said firmly, her anger banishing her blood loss easily. “And the tiger may have simply missed him, or us, the first few times. I stand for no such assault on my husband. Who set this trap will pay with his life, on my word, I swear, by Apakura and Tangaroa, I swear, by the blood of my husband, spilled by cowardice and ambush, I swear. Thrice sworn, his life is mine, who did this thing to the Phantom.”

  
A glare of angry-seeming green light came from her _heitiki_ and the bracelet, as if witnessing her vow, and many recalled that Apakura was the Maori goddess of vengeance. It would not at all inconvenience such a deity, if her chosen vessel took up this chase. She would, thought Zarala with satisfaction, be likely to help.

  
“And what do you intend to do, Lady Donna?” asked Rumal with some trepidation. If she chose to just ride her horse to the New Emperor and challenge him to single combat, no Bandar except Zarala could come to her aid.

  
“Nothing until I know Kit will be alright,” she said flatly, drawing a few sighs of relief. “Then, I go trolling for anyone who wants Aboma Konalh. They may find that I can be just as deadly as Aboma was.”

  
“Oh, Lady Donna,” begged Guran, horrified. “Do not tell the Ghost Who Walks that, please. He will try to stop you, and hurt himself. I see your plan, though. We will shadow you wherever you go and catch any who attack you.”

  
“No, I want him to catch me,” Donna told them, her eyes grey steel, her voice as unyielding as the stone of the Skull Throne. “He wants me alive, he wants me to marry him. I want him to think he can do this. Then, when he tries to consummate his fantasy, I will kill him. Slowly.”

  
Several men in the group turned pale at her words, but most of the Bandar nodded in savage agreement. Zarala making her own private plans. Even the bed chamber of this Emperor would not find Lady Donna without friends, the tiny girl promised Donna’s spirits, plotting.


	13. Chapter 13

Donna was not eager to carry out her plan, but her anger burned within her like a cold flame, and she meant to do exactly as she had said. Yet she needed to speak to others who could confirm or deny these things, others who were not among the living. It was easy for her to achieve a trance this time, her state of blood loss and desire helping Dandoli to open her way. Surrounded by the anxious tribe, she slid into the state that allowed spirits to speak to her and through her.

  
“Spirits,” Dandoli addressed them respectfully, “you have witnessed our Lady Donna’s vow, her oath of vengeance. Can you tell us if we blame the correct person? Revenge is only good if it is against evil, and we seek to know if we are right.”

  
Donna’s body, seated relaxed on a small log, was suddenly upright, every muscle tense as a bowstring, her eyes no longer grey, but roiling greenish, flashing white, as if a storm raged behind them. Her body glowed with otherworldly light, even in the daytime, each piece of jewelry that she wore almost blinding in its brilliance. Her open mouth seemed to emit the sounds of thunder, her teeth sparking with electricity as did the halo of her hair around her head.

  
“Tangaroa speaks,” thundered the creature within the woman. “Vengeance shall be hers against her foe, though it may cost her more than she knows. I have seen her intent and find it good. She shall also have my aid, and that of others who have cause to hate Djembe, for he has made many enemies, though none so great as this, my chosen vessel.”

  
“O Tangaroa,” protested the old shaman, “she carries the child of the Ghost Who Walks. Surely she should await the child’s birth before she takes this trail of vengeance.”

  
“The child will not suffer,” the roar of thunder answered him, lightning flickering in Donna’s eyes. “It has powerful guardians, even before its birth. Worry not for the child.”

  
“Thank you,” said the witch doctor humbly, relieved. “Are there any other spirits who would speak to us through our Lady Donna?”

  
“I speak for all who need such help,” said the thunderous voice. “She needs no more than I to know the truth. Know that I find her plan good.”

  
And with those words, the glow faded away, and the blond collapsed into a heap of limp flesh, hardly even semi-conscious. Anxious pygmies carefully helped her to sit up with Dandoli’s directions, just in time for her to empty her stomach. Jula shook her head and called for soup, bread and water, feeding the kiwi herself. Donna, exhausted by her self-imposed ordeal, was put to bed in spite of the early afternoon hour, tucked into the huge bed alone.

  
She woke later that night, the still shape of her husband nearby, the silent form of Muzi between them, sewing something. Devil lay beside his master’s bed, his pale blue eyes shifting to Donna from the midwife as she stirred. Donna found herself ravenous, and moved, thinking to throw back the covers and go to her beloved. The covers seemed too heavy, as if she were weakened from her ordeal, which she didn’t recall happening before. Muzi had felt her, however, and helped her to her feet, the pygmy woman’s solid strength steadying. In the warmth from the stove and the light of the lanterns, the Phantom lay on clean furs, his bandages new, more skin showing now, though scabbed and bruised. She thought his color better, but could not be certain in the lamp light.

  
“Has he, well, wakened?” she asked softly as the midwife healer put a robe around her, seating her in a chair beside him. “Is he better?”

  
“He is better,” the old woman said reassuringly, beads and fringe clicking together as she moved. “His body needs fluids, and he hasn’t yet come to, but he is better. Nothing wrong with his bowels, I can attest, though they must be nearly empty by now. Oh, don’t look so shocked, Lady Donna! I changed his diapers when he was a baby. Only difference now is that I need help to do it.”

  
“I should be doing that,” Donna whispered to herself, her hand on his bruised rib cage, feeling her lover’s heartbeat. It was slow, but strong, reassuring and solid, and she hardly noticed Muzi leave for a few moments. The midwife came back with Dr. Dorn, himself much better, and between them they put an I.V. bag in place, plugged into his arm where the blood had gone. Dorn made a quick examination of the unresisting kiwi, consulted with Muzi for a moment, then the pair left.

  
Donna slid from the chair to kneel at his side, drawn to him, to his lips. She kissed him gently, his lips dry, her tongue moistening them and sliding inside to his teeth, furry with neglect. His jaw opened slightly, and she felt him taste her exploring tongue with his own, dry and weak, yet conscious. She drew away some six inches, and found his eyes blinking open with more will than strength, and smiled down at him through tears. She silenced him with a finger to his lips when he tried to speak and shook her head at him.

  
“You’ll be okay, darling,” she told him softly, her finger now tracing his stubbled chin. “You lost a lot of blood, though, so take it easy. Relax, go back to sleep, rest. Remember, it’s my turn to pamper you, right?”

  
A smile touched his lips,his eyes closed, and Donna was sure he slept again. Yet this time it was sleep, not a coma or unconsciousness from blood loss. Vastly relieved, Donna sat on the floor by his bed until Muzi returned with Jula and a tray of food for her. She looked up at them with a smile and tears running down her face.

  
“He woke up,” she said happily, wiping her face with the back of her hands. “I kissed him and he woke up, just like a fairy tale. Oh, I’m so happy, Jula.”

  
“Of course you are, dear,” the head woman told her, more relieved herself than she cared to admit with Donna within hearing distance. “Now, eat this, please. It was dangerous enough to give him your blood while you are pregnant, but talking to spirits, as well, is madness. At least eat properly, and get your strength back. You will need it for your plan.”

  
“Yes, I will,” she said evenly, touching the jade piece at her throat, as if for reassurance. The two older women made sure she ate and drank, then again put her to bed. All that night they watched in turns, Jula, Muzi, Dandoli and the next morning, Dr. Dorn, just as pleased that he didn’t need to give blood again. Donna awoke and applied herself to a large breakfast, hearing a storm raging outside. Donna was upset to realize that her Wambesi spear was still back where the tiger had ambushed her lover, and mentioned it to the German.

  
“Ach, no, it is not,” the man assured her, having been told of her oath the night before. “Rumal brought it back with him yesterday, after he investigated the place. I saw him with it only an hour ago.”

  
“Oh, good,” she said, relaxing again, feeling warmth spread out from her middle as the stew settled. “I was afraid it would be ruined by the rain. I just had other things on my mind until now.”

  
“And no wonder it is,” he said with a fond smile. He had grown to think of the New Zealander as an accident prone younger sister, talented and bright, but apt to take chances. “Do not worry, Lady Donna, it is fine. Nothing will move for days in this storm, so you must simply eat and watch, as must we all.”

  
Later that afternoon, with Zarala watching them both, the Phantom again awoke, though his nurses might have missed it had they not been watching closely. Donna saw his hand flex slightly, as if testing his ability to control it yet. Knowing how much of his arm looked beneath the bandages, having watched them being changed earlier, this was a valid question. It must also hurt, she thought, knowing that he had not been given any pain suppressants.

  
“Lady Donna,” whispered Zarala excitedly, pointing.

  
“I see, partner,” Donna told her, slipping from the chair to his side on the now-carpeted floor. “Kit” Darling, don’t try to talk, yet. Zarala, the water.”

  
Donna moistened her husband’s lips and mouth with care, for his position made swallowing difficult and probably painful. She dipped her finger in the water and let it drip into his mouth, wishing she could simply let him use a straw or hold him, as he had done for her. The saline drip in his arm would give him the moisture his body needed, the healers told her, but it would not satisfy his parched throat. He managed a real smile for her, his eyes full of pain, but aware, knowing her.

  
“Don’t worry,” he whispered to her, as she leaned close to catch his words. “It takes more than that to kill me.”

  
“Although maybe not much more,” Donna finished for him. “I know, Kit. Stop trying to find out, will you? Now, go back to sleep, try to rest. Maybe tomorrow we can feed you a little, let you sit up some, at least enough to drink properly. There’s a storm outside that makes it look as if Tangaroa is angry. Maybe he’ll take it out on someone else.”

  
“Yes, dear,” he said obediently, willing himself back to sleep through the pain. Donna would be there for him, he said to himself like a mantra, drifting away again.

  
“I think he’ll be alright, now, Lady Donna,” Zarala told her idol encouragingly, though not at all certain. Death could still snatch him from them, if they did not take care. “Shall I tell the others?”

  
“No, they’ll find out soon enough,” Donna sighed, feeling both happier, for his improvement, and sadder, because he was again beyond her reach. Self-control, she told herself sternly. None of his wounds showed signs of infection, nor did he show any symptoms of fever, which in such a state of weakness might easily kill him. She thought a brief appeal to her patron spirits to keep it so, and settled back into the chair.

  
The next day, with Donna nearly herself again, at least physically, the pallet was re-designed by Dandoli and Guran at Donna’s request. Instead of the simple wooden frame strung with leather, and adjustable device was built, able to let the patient lay flat or recline in a more upright position. Finished before noon, in spite of the rains, the bandaged body was shifted to its new resting place, the reclining position pillowed and padded. Draped in the light blanket, the Phantom woke up in a much more erect position, though the pain was still as intense. Donna sent Zarala, her constant shadow, to get some weak tea and broth, the former made to deaden pain, the latter to strengthen the patient.

  
“Good afternoon, darling,” she told him, kissing him carefully. “It probably doesn’t feel like it to you, but the experts say you’re getting better. Do you like your new position?”

  
“My elevated position?” he said quietly, his attempt at her favorite sort of humor tearing at her heart. “Much better view. How long ago was I hurt?”

  
“Four days ago, Kit,” Donna told him, careful to touch nothing that might connect to an injured part. “You lost a lot of blood before we got here. Scared me half to death, too. Only Dr. Dorn and I can give you blood, and we were thinking about calling Heloise to get more.”

  
“Do I need more?” he asked, seeing the tiny pygmy girl, damp from the rain, bringing two handled clay pots, each trailing steam. She set the pots on the stove top, and tot the waiting wooden cups, the reed drinking straw and looked at the two.

  
“Tea or broth?” she asked, wondering which to pour first. If it were her, she would want the tea first, to deaden the pain.

  
“Is there mint in the tea?” he asked mildly, not even having to move his pillowed head. At her nod, he said “broth, then. Tea for dessert, such as it might be.”

  
They fed him with care, though he couldn’t stay awake long enough to finish the tea. Any movement of his body at all, a cough, an incautious brush against the bed, brought him pain, but he never complained. It was far easier the next day, the broth having given him more strength. He finished his ‘meal’ in the morning right after his wounds had been re-bandaged, fell asleep, and woke again in the afternoon. Donna fed him again and kissed him very carefully until he fell asleep.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there was a lot more sex in this than there is now, but it seemed too awkward and I didn't think it advanced the story much, so i deleted it. I really need to practice that kind of thing.

The next day, with Dandoli’s help and instructions, Donna changed the bandages herself, the old shaman approving of her delicate touch. He also suggested a massage of those parts of the body which had not been injured, to prevent muscle atrophy, which would be a problem with the wounded areas. Donna was left alone with her lover, for Zarala was out tending to the horses, the current storm past.  
She was carefully rubbing his left foot, her strong hands kneading the flesh, when she felt the presence of his father. He appeared beside her, looking concerned, his strong features in profile to the New Zealander. She put down that foot and took up the right. The ghost watched her for a moment.

  
“That’s a good idea,” he said, sounding surprised. “Donna, you have to be careful. The Emperor is setting things in motion to capture you. Duncan’s managed to get inside his little army, however, so you’ll have one ally. Mostly, the soldiers he has are native, armed with spears, swords, bows, the traditional weapons, but his personal guard have rifles, and he has more. Be very careful of him, Donna. He’s an expatriate American, probably a mercenary, definitely a soldier, and quite ruthless.”

  
“He’s no more dangerous than I am,” she said quietly, feeling a twitch of the foot she held. “Nothing to worry Kit, now, promise. He’s got to concentrate on getting better. Can you go anywhere, Dad? Say, to the Kes tribe?”

  
“No, only to places I’d been to when I was alive, or to people I know. Family, friends, that sort of thing. I never visited the Amazons, you see. That was my father, I think. And Kit, of course. Even though I’m dead, I still have limits. Not the same limits, but limits.”

  
“Too bad,” she said to herself, working her hands up his calf, careful not to bend or jostle the leg. “Would have been nice to know what that blackguard is plotting. Oh, well, never mind. I think he’s waking up. Be a dear and talk to him while I get his soup ready, will you?”

  
“Dad?” she heard, as she poured the thin soup into a wooden cup. She stuck in the straw and turned back to her patient and his insubstantial visitor.

  
“You’ve looked better, boy,” the spirit told him, shaking his head sadly. “How do you expect to keep your wife happy, looking like that?”

  
“Actually, Donna would prefer me to stay in bed longer than I do,” he said with a smile, hearing her giggle. “Just a little problem with holes in my hide she could do without.”

  
“Alive is good enough, right now,” she said firmly, making sure the fluid wasn’t too hot. “Anyway, after a few months I’ll be less than ready for that sort of thing, what with the baby. By the time I foal, Kit, you’d better be ready to keep me in bed for a week, at least. Think of all the sex we’re missing!”

  
“Didn’t you once tell me that you don’t just save it up, it’s always there?” he said with a smile, wishing he could show her how much he loved her. “Well, the spirit is willing, as they say, but you know the rest.”

  
“Ghost, not spirit,” she said to him with a smile, broader now than many she’d had lately. “Drink , or eat, if you prefer, this, then, in the interest of tired old cliches.”

  
“Are you sure, son,” asked the ghost, “that English is her native tongue? That sounded more like German sentence structure.”

  
“Oh, go haunt yourself,” Donna told him with a laugh, watching the level of soup drop rapidly. This time, he managed to finish all the broth, and the tea, before going to sleep again. “Well, that’s much better. You Phantoms are a tough lot, I’ll say that for you. Have you talked to Heloise, Dad?”

  
“No, should I have?” he asked, walking through the chair to the iron stove where she stood. “She can’t do much for him now. Only time will fix wounds like that. Believe me, I know.”

  
“Yes, you should talk to her,” Donna told the old ghost, after first checking to see that her lover slept. “I’m probably going to start a small war pretty soon, and I’d like her to sort of coordinate our side. Talk to the Kes, find out who our allies are against the Emperor, that kind of thing. You can tell her my plan, but don’t let on to Kit, it’d worry him to death.”

  
“It would worry me to death,” said the ghost, seriously, “if I weren’t already dead. And it should worry you, too. You’re proposing to let this maniac rape you, basically, hoping he doesn’t find out you’re pregnant until he lets his guard down, then assassinate him? Do I have that right?”

  
“If I let him catch me,” said Donna uncomfortably, “and convince him I’m his conquest, that’s usually called seduction. Most men are easily fooled, according to my Aunt, who was a spy for the Allies. All I have to do is act like I enjoy it, and his ego will do the rest, I hope. And since I’m pregnant, I won’t end up with a bastard after I kill him. My Aunt Marie used to tell me stories when she babysat me about the War. I don’t think she ever talked about it to Mummy.”

  
“It’s dangerous, daughter,” he told her, his face so like his son’s, concerned for her. He tried another tack . ”If you get hurt, or lose the child, how do you think my son will react? You have to take every precaution against that, Donna.”

  
“That’s why I have so many friends,” she told him, touching her amulet. “You, Duncan, Zarala, Heloise, the Kes and the Bandar. But I’m not leaving until I know Kit’s healing . Until the bandages come off, say.”

  
“Mm. Well, then I’d better go see Heloise,” agreed the powerful-looking ghost. “No one better at that than my little girl. I’ll be back, Donna.”

  
“Thank you, Dad,” she said quietly, and made herself think hard about her plans. That was the last night of clear weather for many days, the rain constant for the entire month of June, varying only in its intensity. On days that were only mildly rainy, Donna and Tim swam upstream several times to keep fit, Zarala and Brownie doing the same during the heavy rains with only Jokan to keep watch. Zarala intended to be ready, no matter what the blond did, practicing her skills as secretly as she could.

  
The Phantom required less and less in the way of bandages, and soon tired of his liquid diet, and his forced inactivity. For several days Donna kept his diet liquid, it being easier to clean up than solid remains, but at last, with help, he became well enough to use the bathroom. After that, his strength returned rapidly, though he could not easily move the still healing areas with any ease or facility. Pain, though constant, was not unbearable if he lay still, but reading required movement, as did nearly every other inactivity he could think of. Donna finally ran a speaker from the Radio Room into their bedchamber, with much advice from the invalid.

  
At the end of the month of June, with great care, Kit’s bandages were left off completely, the scars still livid and easily reopened, but the muscles beneath mostly as they had been. Donna spent a great deal of time with him in the bath, helping him loosen the stiff joints, the heat stretching tendons and awakening atrophied muscles. Of course, it was not all therapy, or rather some of it was for Donna, though intercourse was yet unwise, pleasure was achieved.

  
The Phantom could now walk, with help, from his own bed to the bathroom, and return, and was now on solid foods. Donna had begun to like the taste of his semen, not so much for the taste itself, but for the pleasure it gave him. He could give her delicious pleasures with his hands, his mouth and even his voice, so much did she love him, knowing no one else could have done that for her. She could, in bed together, finally, stroke his chest, his hand, without hurting him, lay next to him, feel the warmth of him beside her.

  
That was when the rains began to break, the first week of July, and when the Emperor began his new campaign, disguised as trouble that required the touch of the Keeper of the Peace. Wary of the drums, so easily read, Donna sent no reply, going herself to settle local disputes, having learned most of the languages of the jungle tribes during Kit’s convalescence. Zarala and several Bandar went with her, but after the first few disputes came to a solution under her suggestions, most of the tribes began to treat her a little differently.

  
Now, to them, she was Aboma-Kohalh, and they listened intently to her advice. She explained that her husband had not been able to come, since he was on mysterious business elsewhere. She carefully gave the impression that even she did not know where he had gone, but had full confidence that he would return. Gradually, she began leaving the Bandar warriors behind, and soon, only Zarala, on Brownie, shadowed her far behind.

  
Back in the Deep Woods, by radio, Donna had heard from Heloise, who was on her way, but could not say when she would arrive. Kit, now almost two months after the tiger’s attack, was working at almost normal human levels. His strength and speed had not yet fully returned, and his scars were still easily opened and agonizing to the touch. Still, Donna loved to watch him lifting weights and stretching, thinking that she might soon have him in her again, filling her, soothing her ache.


	15. Chapter 15

A call for help came in from the drum system, a transparent lure for Donna. She had not heard of an expedition of anthropologists in the southeastern part of the jungle, and thought it likely that they were imaginary. Thus prepared, saying nothing to her love, but bidding him a passionate farewell, Donna rode out, armed and ready. She rode Tim, carried her lance, her sword at her saddle, and behind, some several hundred yards, drifted the silent, ready Zarala.

  
Some four hours out, on the only trail that led past a rocky overgrown outcrop, Donna was ambushed. Zarala, prepared and ready, unobserved, saw it all. A dart, probably from a blowgun, struck the blonde in her neck, bright feathers at its end. Donna toppled slowly from the suddenly frozen gelding, her spear falling from limp fingers, her body as nerveless as a dead woman. Before she hit the soft ground, a big warrior in camouflage paint caught her, easing her gently to the damp earth. Zarala read care enough in that gesture to assure her that her friend still lived.

  
Immediately other warriors emerged from cover, some carrying a sort of litter, even as the first man tossed Donna’s helmet aside and removed the dart from her neck. The New Zealander was laid on the litter and firmly tied to it by both hands and ankles, then the rest of her body, prisoner as she had planned. The silent team of kidnappers picked up her litter and headed into the jungle, leaving Zarala with a choice.  
She could follow her adored and endangered Lady Donna, or she could return to the Deep Woods to warn the others. If she went back to the Phantom, she would likely lose the trail, for such men would be hard to track, especially if there was more rain. If she followed, no one in the Deep Woods would know what had happened, maybe waiting too long to come looking. Tim nosed the discarded helmet and looked at her hiding place. Of course.

  
The tiny girl tied the black helmet to Tim’s saddle, looped the reins so he would not trip on them, and sent him home. It took several tries to get him to obey, but at last he trotted back toward the Skull Cave. Zarala thrust the bamboo spear into the earth of the trail to signal those who would come, and made her way silently after the ambushers, marking the trail as she went. The seal brown mare beneath her moved as silently as a panther, almost as if she understood their task, never moving when a warrior glanced back, never arguing with her tiny rider.

  
Donna came awake with a pounding headache, her body sluggish and far away. Her captors let her relieve herself, eat and drink, then again tied her down on the wooden framed litter. They kept her semi-conscious for three days, shifting bearers and moving constantly. At the end of the first day, another group, like relay racers, took over, leaving the first group relaxing around a fire. Zarala killed all six before she took up the trail next morning, retrieving and re-poisoning her arrows carefully, for she did not want enemies behind her. This was repeated every night, none of the men realizing that they were watched and marked for death. Had any shown signs of harming the helpless white woman, all would have died, but she was shown respect, even some fear, a few men refusing to watch her relieve herself. Zarala thought briefly of allowing those to live, but decided against it, not letting herself forget that they had aided in the capture.

  
The Phantom’s wife was taken into the foothills of the Misty Mountains, to a large stone complex, apparently the rebuilt remnants of a sacred city. Zarala was not pleased to see that she would have to wait until dark to enter the place, and be forced to leave Brownie outside. There were many warriors camped around the city walls, but the walls were not yet fully repaired, and would present no problems to the agile child. She watched as closely as possible to determine where to search for her adored friend, once the time came.

  
Donna was carried triumphantly into the main temple hall, now the throne room of the New Empire. Emperor Djembe himself sat on his skin covered throne, surrounded by his rifle armed mercenary guards, to receive her. A scruffy, dangerous-looking bunch, the men who guarded the ruling despot were much like their leader. The Emperor watched the litter with the semi-conscious woman set before him and smiled.

  
He rose slowly to his feet and stepped down to the marble floor where she rested, looming over her like a dark giant, enjoying his mastery, his power. He was a squarely built, balding black man, his mercenary origins obvious among his guards, mostly black, but others there as well. He wore a pair of silken pantaloons of blue brocade, tooled leather slippers and an eastern style silk over robe. The golden robe, also silk brocade, left his massive chest exposed, showing off his golden chains around his neck and the gun belt at his waist.

  
“This is Aboma-Konalh?” he asked in Americanized English. “Call the slave women to prepare her. Keep her drugged until I order differently. Tomorrow I will wed her and her power will be mine.”

  
Donna, her mind far more alert than it should have been, heard much about the New Emperor, his plans for her and what these folk had heard of her and the Phantom. Though her body was almost incapable of independent movement, her mind took in everything around her, even though her eyes sometimes did not cooperate. The two women the potentate called his slave woman, who thought of themselves as his wives, hated and feared Donna, almost as much as they feared Djembe. They stripped her down to her jewelry, took great satisfaction in bathing her in cold water, and were needlessly rough with her hair. They debated using cosmetics on her, but decided she might be uglier without them, perhaps gaining them a small edge. They had competed for his affections before, now they were united against her.

  
Dressed, finally, in a flimsy, transparent piece of silk, gold painted manacles on wrists and ankles, and her undisturbed jewelry, Donna was carried into the Emperor’s private chamber. Set in a stone chair, possibly a place for supplicants in earlier times, Donna was chained by her roughly made manacles to the padded stone. She sat in stuporous stillness for some while, grateful that she could not feel much, including her hunger, wondering what would happen next.

  
The room was opulent, unsure in tone whether to be Near or Far East gaudy. Silks and brocades vied with jade and lacquer. A desk with a large chair behind it, all elaborate and teak, sat before her, a low couch of stone, also padded, to her right, a table bearing maps to her left. The map table was a glaring incongruency, a folding card table of military drab, as battered as Donna felt. Light came in a high window, that of evening, and lamps burned in the office.

  
The big black man who called himself Djembe now finally entered, followed by several of his guards. Except for a brief moment to lift her chin and inspect her eyes, Donna was ignored, apparently expected to be mere furniture. The Emperor sounded American, and Donna soon figured out why, for he spoke freely with what were apparently old friends. They poured over their maps, discussing plans made and troop dispositions, which Donna listened to very carefully.

  
Djembe was apparently a deserter from the American army in South Vietnam, as were several of his men. They often called him ‘Captain’ or ‘Jimmy’ when excited or not corrected. Like the Kipling story, this man had found a place that he could conceivably become king of, and was working to make it so. He found the local tribes primitive and gullible, superstitious and easily dominated. Some myths, such as the story of Emperor Joonkar, provable fact, he used to his advantage. Others, such as the Phantom, gave him trouble.

  
When the men left, dismissed with leers and grins, he came to stand before Donna with a hard, calculating look in his eyes. Donna’s body was still outside her control, and he spent some time examining her closely, moving her this way and that, like some living rag-doll. He seemed particularly fond of her breasts, stroking them so often that the silk gauze became stained. He began to whisper to her what he would do to her, then abruptly changed his mind, calling his guard and ordering her taken to the harem.

  
Again drugged, unfed, allowed only water and a brief session to relieve herself, Donna was chained between two pillars by the harem bed. Hours later, in the lamplight, after he had eaten, the Emperor used his women. Apparently inspired by the silent white woman who waited his pleasure, the man rutted himself into exhaustion. He was a cruel and inconsiderate lover, Donna observed, enjoying pain in his chosen victim as well as pleasure. He had two fairly willing women to use, yet he slapped and hit them, bruised and choked them, apparently needing the cruelty to excite himself.

  
Donna contemplated this revolting creature and gave a mental shudder at what she would have to do to kill him. Near dawn, the drug slightly less effective with time, Donna saw movement above the bed, at one of the narrow windows. To her mild surprise, she saw Zarala, eyes wide with horror at first, then narrow in anger at the obvious intent. The tiny girl pantomimed shooting the man in the tumbled harem bed, and Donna managed to shake her head ‘no.’ If he was killed, Donna could still not escape from this place the way Zarala could. Zarala drew her hand across her face like a mask and made grasping motions, and Donna nodded, thinking that she understood. The tiny girl glared down at the powerful man with implacable hate, then vanished.

  
Donna figured she had gone to find the Phantom, but feared for his safety if he came too close to this violent despot. The horrible vision of her lover in chains, or bleeding, helpless , before her was enough to harden her resolve. Hopefully, as the drug was wearing off, he would decide to try her paces in his office, where a convenient knife lay on the ornate desk. When he awoke, however, Donna was ordered taken to his office, but chained once again to the chair.

  
The drug had worn off completely by the time he got there, the sunlight at the glass-less windows proclaiming noon. He sat at the desk, looking at her as if he were a snake, ready to strike, as flat and cold of eye. He drummed his fingers on his teak desk and appeared to be not at all aroused by her, the night before notwithstanding.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sex/seduction/rape, not sure what to call it actually.

“Who are you?” he finally demanded, apparently aware that the drug should have worn off, and a little put off by her motionless stare. “People call you Aboma-Konalh, say you have great powers, yet you seem very ordinary, even weak.”

  
“I am Donna McLaren,” she said, her voice dry from lack of use and no water. “If I am weak, it is from drugs and starvation. I have no powers.”

  
“No? Then why did you ride out to this or that tribal dispute, with no more than your sword and spear, and return with harmony and light behind you?” he demanded. “I have even heard that you can kiss someone who is dead and bring them back to life.”

  
“I am a negotiator,” sighed Donan, disgusted with the man, yet willing to let him believe his own superstitions. “I talk them into getting along. What did you think? That I ride into some village and command them to all be peaceful and happy? I can’t do that. No one can. Except maybe my husband.”

  
“The Phantom,” he said, eyes narrowing. Donna thought him no so much ugly as rugged, but that expression tipped the balance. “He is dead. I had a tiger trained to kill him. The tiger never came back, but no one has seen the Ghost Who Walks, either.”

  
“He’ll come back,” she said confidently. “He always does. In the meantime, it’s my job to keep the peace he works for. Sometimes, it just takes a while for him to get over being dead, he told me. Depends on how badly he was, uh, messed up.”

  
“Well, he’ll be a while this time,” said the Emperor, sitting back in satisfaction. “And when he comes back, he’ll find the jungle belongs to me, Emperor Djembe, as does his wife. Whether you think you’re the ancient queen or not, doesn’t matter, see. Other people do, and as long as you belong to me, they will obey me. Much easier than conquering them, don’t you think?”

  
“Gods and demons.” groaned Donna. “Not you too. Look, I’m a girl from New Zealand who fell in love with a very special man. He’s got all kinds of special skills, powers, maybe even magic ones, I don’t know. Just ‘cause I’m married to him, the locals think I need some kind of supernatural skills as well. I never even heard of Aboma before I got here, and I wish I never had. One little skirmish with half a dozen cannibals, during which, I might add, I was nearly killed, and I’m the returned warrior queen. Do I look like King Arthur? Really.”

  
“Only so few?” smiled the Emperor, thinking her maybe not so tough, after all. “That’s more than most women would have dared alone.”

  
“I had help,” Donna admitted. “My horse, Tim, scared them a little, and one of the Bandar shot some of them from the brush.”

  
“Ah,” said the man, relaxing, as Donna intended. “I see. It’s an exaggeration, like kissing the dead Phantom and having him come back to life.”

  
“Well, that did happen,” she admitted. “But it would have happened anyway. It was just a stab wound to the heart and a broken neck. He says that’s not bad at all. I was just kind of a pleasant bonus, according to him.”

  
“And so you are,” he said, licking his lips. Her direct, even gaze made him believe her, her proud bearing made him want to humble her, force her to beg from him. He let his mind dwell briefly on her nearing rape, something he had always enjoyed, then dragged his attention back to her. He came around the desk to stand in front of her, amazed to see that she did not fear him, or even care that she was next to naked. “Did he love you? Did you love him? All the jungle knows of your wedding.”

  
“Oh, I love him with all my heart and soul,” Donna sighed, tears starting down her cheeks. “I miss him so much, so much. He makes me so happy.”

  
“Well, now they shall know of our marriage,” decided the self-made ruler, the man who called himself Djembe now. He went to the door and conferred with one of his guards, a long hurried conversation, one that Donna could not hear. Several laughs made her apprehensive, but she kept her show of indifference, her purpose clearly in mind. Preferable to geld him, she thought, given the choice, rather than killing him outright.

  
“Our wedding is being announced, Aboma-Konalh. I will always call you this, and you will always call me Djembe, Emperor or Master,” he told her. The thin silken pantaloons he wore showed her that he was aroused, and she fought down her gorge to stare back at him calmly. Had spies felt this way when sleeping with Nazis to get information for the Allies, she wondered briefly. If so, her Aunt Marie must have glossed over that bit to her much younger self.

  
He took her head in his hands and roughly kissed her, his musky scent strong in her nostrils as he forced her jaw open and possessed her mouth, bruising her lips with his teeth. He squeezed her left breast brutally through the dirty silk, feeling her squirm with pain and humiliation. He stood back and laughed, eyes hot.

  
“You will be my wife,” he growled, licking his lips in anticipation. “Your husband is dead, now I will take his place, and your power. These primitives respect strength, and if I can show them that I have tamed you, they will flock to my army, begging to serve me. As will you, Aboma-Konalh.”

  
“My husband is the Ghost Who Walks,” Donna told him, letting a tremor come into her voice. “He always comes back, even if he is dead. I don’t want anyone but him.”

  
“I will make you forget him,” promised the powerful man, tossing aside his robe to reveal a muscular body, silk trousers ballooning around his ankles with color. “Women adore me, beg to be my bed slaves. I can make a woman weep with pleasure and beg for my touch.”

  
“It wouldn’t matter if you were hung like a cape buffalo bull,” she sniffled. “You don’t have almost five hundred years of practice to draw on. I wish he’d hurry up and get back, you know. It’s been a long time since we made love, and I miss him.”

  
“Guards!” he cried, half-choked in rage and lust. “Aboma-Konalh is now my wife! Chain her to the marriage bed!”

  
The guards respectfully did as they were ordered, and soon Donna lay stretched across the stone bench, her silks no barrier to the lustful Djembe’s gaze. He ripped the flimsy gauze from her and gagged her with it, the expertise he displayed telling Donna that this was not the first time. He let his pantaloons fall, to reveal his risen manhood, large, by normal standards, but less than impressive to Donna.

  
In spite of her true opinion, the blond acted as if she were impressed, even a little afraid. This seemed to satisfy the man for a while, for he began to caress her body in what he apparently thought were erotic ways. Donna struggled at first, revolted, her body twisting but helpless. He found this amusing, and began to work on her breasts with his hands, using his teeth on her nipples. He engaged in what he imagined to be arousing small talk about women he had previously had, what he had done to their breasts and bodies, how it had hurt them, and how it had pleased and entertained him.

  
Donna’s nipples, roughly treated, began to bleed, and he seemed to enjoy her moans of pain the the taste when he licked away the blood. Donna forced herself to relax and centered herself, eyes closed as the despot toyed with her. Act, she told herself sternly. Convince him he’s the greatest lover since Adam. He already thinks so, confirm it, beg him to do it again if you have to, but get free so you can kill him. Hands between her thighs signaled his change of focus.

  
Donna moaned and let herself shudder as he stroked her clit with a fat finger, spreading her legs wider, as if in invitation. He chuckled and plunged his face into her crotch, licking and biting, rubbing his stubbly chin on her sensitive skin and sucking at her clit. She arched under him, whimpering from behind the gag, squeezing with her inner muscles to simulate orgasmic juice flow. As with her boyfriends, long ago, he was fooled, lapping up both her fluids and her acting. Eagerly, he climbed onto her, clumsily stuffing his fat penis into her body. She tossed her head from side to side, pulling against the golden manacles, as he plunged into her, halted, took a rough, bruising grip on her breasts and began to seriously use her. He went slowly at first, trying to enjoy his dominance, but she distracted him with her show of eagerness. He went faster as she rose beneath him as if to meet him, moaning, letting her hands clench where he could see them. His orgasm took him as he spilled his seed into her, hers was false, but convincing, squeezing his tool and his sperm back down her well trained vagina.

  
He finally arose from her, and saw that her eyes streamed tears, her body still trembled, flushed with what he thought was a gratifying orgasm. Not unusual for a woman that he had raped, he said to himself, but he had expected hate and anger from this woman, at least until he broke her. He took the gag from her mouth and tossed it aside, wishing he could trust those teeth near his precious manhood. She was one hell of a ride, he thought, wondering how she had been with her first husband. They were never the same after he broke them.

  
“Again,” Donna gasped, to his astonishment. “Oh, please, again. It was wonderful, you’re wonderful. Oh, please, take me again.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thought that last chapter was explicit, no, this one is

The would-be potentate had prepared for this marriage rape far longer than Donna knew, and had purposely sated himself that morning on several concubines. He had never anticipated being asked to use his victim again, and his ego swelled even larger, but his body was exhausted.

  
“Maybe later,” he said, finding that he rather hoped he could. “You have a wedding ceremony to attend. Don’t worry, Aboma-Konalh, you’ll get all the fucking you can take and more. The first Aboma had a hundred husbands, so the legend says, so I’ve chosen the others for you. Some are chiefs I want to keep loyal to me, others, mostly, are my personal guards. There’s even a few white men among them for variety.”

  
“But I want you,” she whimpered, trying to reach for his shrunken tool, prevented by her chains. “Let me kiss it, take it in my mouth, make you hard again, please.”

  
“Tempting,” he said, seeing her tongue lick her lips sensuously. “But I’d rather watch a few of your new husbands consummate your marriage, first. After the first dozen, I’ll probably take you again, show them how it’s done. I must be certain there’s no more fight in you, you see. You will be my slave, a figurehead, no more. Guards! Bring my slave women and come here!”

  
The two guards and the concubines entered from the corridor where they’d been eagerly listening. The two women shot hate-filled glances at Donna, but knelt as she was unshackled from the rape couch. Donna let her knees give way as if weakened by his touch, then stood as if by will alone, flanked by the guards. She let her body tremble, not very difficult, and gazed longingly at Djembe.

  
“You will bathe and shave and dress Aboma-Konalh,” he told them all. “Treat her like my queen. Tonight she consummates her other marriages, and she should at least start out looking nice.”

  
In spite of their jealousy and hatred of her, the two black women, who Djembe had never called his wives, but considered themselves so, treated her royally, even oiling her ragged nipples with ointment. Donna could handle Djembe, she was sure, but being raped by that many strange men would probably break her, ruining her plan. She couldn’t escape quite yet, the guards were too alert, the chains always fastened to some immovable object, no weapon in reach. One more session with the Emperor, though, would have him where she wanted him, Donna thought, if she could keep her sanity in the face of mass rape.

  
Draped in a purple robe, open down the front, her hair twined with gold and jewels, or at least sparkly things, the chained blond was led to a vast hall. Pillared with stone and set on a dais at the end was a high altar, apparently for sacrifices to the forgotten god who had been worshipped there. Donna was chained between two pillars, arms and ankles spread, displayed to the crowd of men in the lower hall. Murmurs of anticipation came from them, most feeling the hot urge of rut on them.

  
“This is Aboma-Konalh,” Djembe told them proudly in one of the commoner Jungle languages, wearing his own royal robe again. “To prove my power, I have captured her and wed her by force. Only hours ago she begged me to take her yet again, but I have promised her to you, my loyal allies. Do not harm her, but satisfy her needs as a good husband should, with hard thrusts and many of them!”

  
“Do you have anything to say, wife?” he asked, after the laughter had gone down, pulling away the robe from her body, revealing her to the crowd of eager men. Donna’s eyes glowed greenish, her body stiff and the pillars creaked with sudden strain. The roar of the sea came from her mouth as it opened to speak. Djembe stepped back in shock.

  
“Who takes this woman unwilling shall find his sex withers and falls like old fruit from a vine,” said a terrible voice, not Donna’s by any means. Lightning seemed to flash in her eyes, making many draw back. “Tangaroa, god of storms, protects her.”

  
Donna sagged suddenly against her chains, and retched miserably for a few moments, unable to stand. Fortunately, she had eaten nothing for days, so there was no result. Many of the crowd recognized the symptoms of possession, and quietly faded back behind their less informed fellows. City bred mercenaries of the guards were not impressed, and clamored for a turn at the shaking blond.

  
“She is simply unnerved at the idea of being raped by so many,” the Emperor told his head guard, and old friend who carried a rifle and pistol. “Cast the lots for her first, and then put her on the altar. Maybe the gods they used to worship her will join in. If not, they will be the only ones who don’t. Everyone takes her, understand?”

  
“Yes, Captain, uh, Emperor,” replied the mercenary, having a moment of sympathy for the woman. There wouldn’t be much left of her after this lot got through with her. “The Wogs don’t look too keen anymore. What about them?”

  
“Screw ‘em,” snarled the despot. “Just the guards, then. Once she’s been fucked into a mindless slave, they’ll wish they’d helped. Go on.”

  
The man saluted, and handed out lots to those around the dais, hoots and jeers telling who had drawn what sort of number. Two of them took the stumbling Donna to the altar, a slanted slab of white marble whose edge was about three feet from the wide step below. There was a curved indentation in the altar, probably to catch the blood of sacrificed animals in a bowl, but Djembe had seen its possibilities quite differently. Padded with lion and tiger skins, it now served as a convenient place to rape the New Zealander. Her ankles were tied tight to the front of the altar, her body exposed at the curve as a sacrificial goat might have been, her wrists bound above her head. The slight slope of the slab allowed those in the hall to see her, to watch her and her assailants. A man need only stand in the curve before the altar and plunge into the target before him, they saw, but those who were jungle bred, untempted, stayed away from the lots being passed out.

  
“Aboma was wife to the god of battles,” one whispered to another, passed along and embroidered on. “Dak was father to the god of storms. Perhaps Aboma was the storm god’s mother, and he is angry that she is dishonored. It is not wise to anger gods, or any spirits. The Ghost Who Walks cannot be killed, and she is his wife, too. He will be angry.”

  
The first guard came to stand before Donna, his manhood proud and high. He had taken off only his gunbelt, and hefted his tool in one hand to show her, thinking to impress or scare her.

  
“I reject you,” she said, loud enough to be heard around the hall against the silence. "There is no respect in your manner, and you do not ask as is proper.”

  
“You ain't gonna reject this, bitch,” he told her with a laugh, plunging into her with no more care than if he were kicking a stray dog. He forced himself into her dry and soon spent himself.

  
“I hope you enjoyed that,” Donna told him coldly. “It was you last time. Remember the reward of arrogance.”

  
“High toned little bitch,huh?” he told her, zipping up and buckling on his belt. “I’ll have you again, later, if these boys leave anything.”

  
Another came before her, a big Afrikaner, blond and aryan-looking, an unhung Nazi, Donna thought. He’d taken off his shirt and his belt, and wore only Khaki shorts, showing off his ox-like body. He had a hard, cruel face, and Donna felt a shudder of fear as he bared his tool, pink and thick. He ran a fat, calloused finger up her dripping flesh and chuckled.

  
“It is too bad, ja, that you are not mine, liebchen. I would enjoy breaking you in. But this will have to do, and I will still enjoy it. I am lucky to be second, there will be little left of you later. Scream well, and I will be quick.”

  
“I reject you,” she said, as he spread her with his fingers and probed with his tool. “You are no gentleman. Take pleasure in me now, for it will be your last.”

  
The Afrikaner laughed and plunged into her with brutal force, slapping her breasts and thighs to hear her growl, see her wince. He finished and left, still chuckling, to stand with the first man, elbowing each other and making ribald comments.

  
The next man was a big bruiser of a mercenary, looking faintly hispanic, and he simply undid his fly, pulled himself out and thrust into her, slapping her if she looked likely to speak. He finished quickly and Djembe was becoming bored. He had expected screams and sobs, writhing humiliation, but she did none of those things, actually threatening his men in the act of rape.

  
Duncan McLeod was next, and he took a far different tack. Knowing that he would be shot for refusing, he admitted to himself, was only part of his incentive. He had no intention of allowing her to refuse him, and had an advantage none of the others suspected. He wore a t-shirt and shorts, his lithe body moving with balance and grace, his long hair black silk over his shoulders. Instead of stepping up to her body, he went to her head and bowed respectfully. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of him, then widened in recognition.

  
“I am Duncan McLeod, of the Clan McLeod,” he said, his soft voice carrying to the hushed crowd. “O Aboma-Kohalh, I ask to serve you as your husband, with heart and mind and body. Accept me as your husband and your servant, and I will prove myself to you with pleasure and serve you with my sword.”

  
“You have pretty manners for a mercenary,” she said, loud enough for others to hear. “Kiss me, and I will consider.”

  
He bent his head to hers, his black hair a curtain against the vast room. Before he could kiss her, she whispered softly to him.

  
“Duncan, don’t, please. The curse is real. I can’t stop it, if you take me against my will,” she pleaded. He kissed her and murmured back to her, savoring her lips.

  
“They’ll shoot me if I don’t.”

  
“You’ll get over it,” she told him, knowing he was immortal.

  
“And put my head over the gate,” he whispered, kissing his way down her throat, delicate, sensual kisses, much like those Kit gave her. “I know you’ve been without him too long, but let me make up for it, just a little.”

  
“I accept you as my second husband,” she said, lifting her chin as he worked his way down her body, over the top of her breast, around beneath it, his hands massaging her sore, cramped muscles. She tried very hard to want him, to avert the curse, and found that she did want him. He was the only remotely friendly male in the area, and he loved her, though far more than she loved him.

  
He concentrated on pleasing her, to the edification of those present, some shouting advice or rude comments, others learning from the Highlander, as Donna’s body responded to him. He moved all the way down her left side, easing her cramping thigh and calf muscles, massaging her foot, then starting on the other. As he finished her right thigh, he began to strip off his shirt, and many thought he would take the helpless woman then, but instead he carefully, even delicately cleaned her of the spilled seed left by the others.

  
Donna was by this time more relaxed, feeling the pangs of hunger more than fear, and his tongue at her sex was almost welcome, pleasant and careful. He probed her deeply with fingers and tongue, using all the expertise of four centuries of lovemaking. How often he had fantasized this, thinking it could never be, and now he had his chance to please her, love her, possess her. That he alone, of all the men present, knew her to be pregnant gave the act that little extra spice of secrecy, as well as the sour feel of betraying his friend by loving his wife.

  
Donna found the Scot to be a far more expert lover than her husband, and was soon engulfed by a series of orgasms that made some in the crowd applaud. When he wiped his wet face on his t-shirt and flung it aside, there were shouts from many of encouragement, and some fought over the garment to smell its damp, female fluids. He let his shorts fall to the step, heedless of his audience, kicked free and stood before her where her rapists had all stood. Her face ran with real tears this time, and her body ached for him to fill it.

  
“May I give you my self, sealing our marriage and my oath to serve, o Aboma-Konalh, Lady of the Trees?” he asked softly, his maleness, like his body, slender, tall, yet strong. His desire ramped plain between them, and Donna found herself wanting him very badly indeed.

  
“Consummate our marriage, Second Husband,” she said with a gasp of pleasure as he entered her before she had finished speaking. He leaned back, so that he stroked her inner flesh on the upward side far more strongly than the rest. Donna shuddered and felt a delicious warmth surge through her body, like a wave, building slowly. Her whimpers and moans of ecstasy rode at the crest of the wave, until, with mind numbing force, her orgasm crashed on the shore of Duncan’s explosive release.


	18. Chapter 18

It was closely followed by a scream, male and horrified, from where the first three men stood. The big black man was staring down at his groin, heedless of the green pants around his ankles. Instead of a proud cock, as he had had when he had taken the blond, his tool, and it’s attendant balls, were visibly shriveling away to nothing. Gasps and shouts filled the pillared hall, as men fought to see what was happening. In moments, the big mercenary was as sexless as an egg, smooth and clean, his flesh unscarred, yet changed.

  
Frantic, the big Afrikaner and the Latino both exposed themselves to the crowd, even as the black collapsed in a sobbing heap, mourning his host organs. The big white man moaned in fear as his half erect tool began to visibly blacken, the Spaniard turning pale with fear. In the excitement, Duncan calmly dressed himself, took up his sword, and began to unchain his wife.

  
The ox-like man flung himself at Donna’s chained feet, sobbing pleas for mercy, the Spaniard right beside him, to no avail. As soon as she was free and standing on her own, she swept her gaze across the room. The men of the jungle cringed and knelt, ashamed and afraid. Those mercenaries she looked at would not meet her eyes, many suddenly finding it expedient to be elsewhere. The Emperor Djembe, perhaps secure in his opinion that she still wanted his body, was made of sterner stuff. He ordered his guards to take the blond back to his harem.

  
“Not now, Djembe,” said Donna, stepping around the now sexless things on the floor. “I have a headache. I’m starving. I want Chocolate. And a nice, warm, dry bed. Can you find me those things, Duncan, dear?”

  
“Right this way, my lady,” he said, indicating his directions with a graceful bow. “Although, I don’t know about the chocolate. Can you get your god friend to do that part?”

  
“Tangaroa, god of storms,” she said, loudly enough to be heard by the Emperor and his guards over the whining, “and Apakura, goddess of death, don’t work that way, alas. Duncan, look out!”

  
The sexless black man, naked now, rushed down on the kiwi and her escort, waving a machine pistol, obviously intending to kill the woman. Duncan pushed her behind his body, trying to draw his sword, but the gun went off, spattering bullets around. Many dove for cover behind pillars, but Duncan caught several rounds in his body, killing him, but protecting the white woman. Donna drew the Highlanders sword as he fell, slipped behind the pillar next to them, went around the stone column and neatly beheaded the Scot’s assassin.

  
Duncan lay obviously dead, his body twisted and still, the chest, muscled and sleek so recently above her now torn and bloody. Donna looked at the Emperor and sighed, judging him still out of her reach, knelt beside the immortal, and set his sword beside her.

  
“I’m sorry, Djembe, I wanted to have you later, too, but I can’t let Duncan die. Now I won’t be fit for you later, or willing,” and she leaned over the Scot and kissed him. Donna took her time, aware of watching eyes. She smoothed her hands across the wounds as she kissed him, and felt the immortal revive, and start to kiss her back. His wounds healed up as she stroked his chest, and gasps of amazement and awe came from the watchers. Djembe stared, along with all his men, for as soldiers they recognized the possibilities of what they thought they had just seen.

  
The New Emperor had just experienced a complete revision of his plans for the blond. Far from the mere object of sex he had planned to make her, a creature whose only function would have been to bring various tribes to his banner, now she was far more important. A woman who could not be raped without horrible consequences, he doubted that any man here would do so now, himself included. And one who could, with her kiss, bring dead men back to life, as well. This woman was not to be ill treated, but rather pampered and guarded like a treasure.

  
“Aboma-Konalh, wife and queen,” he proclaimed loudly, “you shall have all that you desire. Make ready the harem for her rest, have food brought, the best we have. Send slaves to serve her and guards to protect her. Go!”

  
The remaining guards, awed, scurried to do his bidding, many wondering if they could please the blond enough to deserve such magical revival. The two remaining rapists were left with the headless corpse of the first, as Duncan, his sword at his side, was led, along with the woman, to the erstwhile harem. Now it was Donna’s own small compound.

  
The jungle folk discussed this as they left, small knots of them disappearing into the night with erotic fantasies in their hearts, as well as serious doubts of Djembe as a ruler. Donna, however, had both strength and power, they told themselves, and her work with Duncan’s sword was proof positive of her identity. Many now waited to see what the white woman would do, rather than what Djembe would do.

  
Donna, Duncan at her heels, again came to the harem, but this time, on her own feet, and unchained. Her word exiled the concubines to Djembe’s quarters, brought what clothing there was for her to choose from, and the obsequious removal of her manacles. Duncan, still a little shaky, was let alone, just inside the door, a huge meal laid before them, including three small squares of rather melted chocolate. Donna dismissed all the guards and servants, and with Duncan’s help, barred the doors.

  
Safe at last, Donna ate slowly, her empty, roiling belly apt to reject too much. Duncan sat beside her, his arm around her protectively, amazed at her strength and resilience. She leaned into him, shuddering only now in reaction to her ordeal, something that might have broken another woman far sooner.She ended up sobbing in his arms, wishing desperately for Kit, intensely grateful for Duncan. He soothed her as well as he could and took her to the big harem bed, actually a big pad with blankets and pillows, and tucked her in, sitting at guard for a while, cleaning his sword.

  
“Duncan?” she said softly, an uncharacteristic quiver in her voice, “I think I need you. Please?”

  
“Donna, I don’t know,” he told her, laying the naked sword next to the bed. “Kit’s going to be mad enough as it is. What are you doing here without him, anyway?”

  
“He got clawed up by a tiger really bad, two months ago,” Donna said, feeling tears threaten again. “Duncan, hold me, please.”

  
“Donna, if I hold you again, I can’t be sure I won’t end up making love to you,” he told her, but shedding shorts and shoes quickly. “I’ve wanted you for so long, and you’re so tempting, curse or no. God, I hope Kit knows how lucky he is.”

  
“Duncan, I need you to hold me, love me,” she said, feeling guilty, yet unable to explain any better. “I need you to remind me that love and sex can be wonderful, not sordid and forced.”

  
“Ah, I’ve seen women raped before,” he admitted, gathering her into his arms, both naked and warm. Donna’s wrists were still red from her chains, the skin torn, but little other physical harm had been done to her. “It’s more of a mental violation than bodily hurt. Lots of them have a deep conviction that they must have provoked it somehow, and guilt nearly kills them, along with the shame and violation. Support from friends and family is important.”

  
“I really did provoke, or at least, plan it,” she said, her body relaxing into his. “And I intend to do it at least once more. I’ve just lived two of my fantasies, sort of, you know. Three, really. Like most fantasies, they didn’t come out quite the way I’d imagined.”

  
“Tell me,” he said, nuzzling her hair, his arms around her, enfolding her. He wished he had a hot bath to hold her in, it would help her relax, aside from the filth that had been done to her. He could still smell some of the others on her.

  
“Oh, common fantasies,” she assured him, embarrassed, though he had fucked her and now lay naked with her. “Rape is a fantasy most women have but don’t actually want, according to my psychology professor. The release from morals by an outside force, he used to say. And multiple men, variety. You’re the only one who lived up to my dreams, Duncan. Those others were just rude.”

  
“That’s two, what was the third?” he asked, wanting to take her, afraid to hurt her, having felt her wince as he brushed her nipples experimentally. He kissed her ear, her throat, stroked her shoulder.”

  
“You,” she said softly, a sob in her throat. “I’d never have even told you, Duncan, but the first time I saw you, I fell for you. If I couldn’t have had Kit, if he’d died, I would have been yours in days. How can I tell him that? He’ll think I don’t love him anymore, but I do. I love him enough to let that bastard Djembe use me, fake orgasms with him, even beg for him to take me again, just so I can get him for hurting Kit.”

  
“You are a tough woman,” the Highlander said, stroking the undersides of her breasts, pleased that she had been ignoring him all this time out of loyalty to her husband, not out of indifference to him. “Are you tough enough to take another round of passion, done right this time?”

  
“I don't know, but the last was wonderful,” she said with a smile, her hands covering his. She placed them deliberately on her breasts, making him rub firmly with his palms at the sore nipples. “Gods, Duncan, are we really married? I mean, it’s not really fair, ah, my having two men, ahh, so, mmm, magnificent. But, oooh, I couldn’t let you be cursed, and I have always, uhn, wanted you, just a little, even when Kit was healthy.”

  
“Donna,” he said softly, delighted with her confession and her guilt, “shut up and enjoy this. Even if Kit decides to kill me for it, I mean to.”

  
“I hope he doesn’t kill you,” she sighed at last, tired and relaxed. “At least not more than a few times. You have got to teach him that. When he’s better.”

  
“How badly did he get hurt?” asked the immortal, forcing himself away from the post coital languor that called to him. “And when?”

  
“Nearly two months ago, really badly. He needed transfusions from me and Dr. Dorn. Hundreds of stitches, couldn’t even eat solid food for a month. Both shoulders and both thighs, really scored deeply, from the claws and fangs.”

  
“No other injuries?” the Scot asked sharply, worried. “No internal damage or genital injuries?”

  
“No, thank the gods,” she said drowsily, stroking her heitiki with one finger. “But still awfully tender and delicate. We’ve been pretty innovative lately about that sort of thing, Had to. So nice to do it with someone I love again.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, real life stuff. Decided to retire, and you wouldn't believe the paperwork.

McLeod waited until she slept, then eased out of bed and dressed himself again, wondering how to escape with her before she carried out her mad, headstrong scheme. Djembe was the only one controlling the mercenaries, and no one in this part of the jungle could stop them if they chose to pillage and rape their way back to civilization. The weapons in the armory would be more than enough to annihilate whole tribes, if they were opposed. The armory had to be destroyed, and Donna had to escape, yet he was at a loss as to how to accomplish these things.

  
As far as that went, he wasn’t certain they could escape from here, either. This was a makeshift refuge, the best he could think of on short, revivified notice, but it might have been a mistake. The harem was, of course, built to keep people in and others out, and apparently the original builders had had similar intents. The high windows were small, most too small to admit a body, at least of any size. While repairs had been made, they were sturdy, and Duncan doubted that they would prove any more penetrable for the two of them.

  
While they could unbar the doors and probably either overawe or kill the guards, there were far too many around, armed with guns as well as other weapons, to risk. He might survive, but Donna had no such recuperative powers to her, spiritual protectors or no. They might, with cover of darkness, and great luck, manage something the next night, if only there were some sort of diversion, optimally the explosion of the arsenal. Too bad they couldn’t find an outside ally, someone with the skills and knowledge needed to penetrate the armory and do so. Someone, he admitted to himself, like Kit or Heloise. Heloise would be perfect for the task, he decided, having worked with the Rakshasa before. She could melt through walls, he’d always thought, and if there was anything she didn’t know about explosives, it was news to the Highlander.

  
He wondered if Kit knew yet where his wife was and what she was doing, if he realized what the blond had already endured in order to protect him. The injuries Donna had described were things that the Phantom Line could routinely ignore, even overcome, if the situation required it. If Kit knew where Donna was and what she intended, he would be here very soon, if not this very minute, no matter how much pain it cost him. If he had known what had been done to her, he might lose his temper and do as his grandfather had once done, losing both his freedom and nearly his wife. A frontal assault would be suicide with this bunch, something at least Heloise would have sense enough to stop him from doing.

  
It would, he thought, be perfect, if all of Donna’s friends and allies, from Kit to the tiny Zarala, could just be dropped into the center of the unsuspecting mercenaries via some secret passage. There were far fewer secret passages, Duncan found, in the real world than were in fiction, good or bad. Although, an abandoned temple complex would hardly be complete without at least one secret tunnel, just as no jungle seemed complete without monkeys.

  
He heard a small noise and looked up, the lights still lit, though two had burned out. Zarala squirmed through the opening and dropped to the floor, almost as soundless as the shadow she resembled. She looked around cautiously, then came to squat before the Highlander with unconcerned ease. A bow and quiver was ready to her hand and she hadn’t so much as ruffled the fletching of a single arrow in her entry. Duncan was impressed.

  
“Quite an entrance,” he murmured, feeling a small prickle of worry at that steady, silent regard. “Is there any way out of here that she can use?"

  
“Is the Lady Donna able to use it?” asked the tiny girl quietly, her dark-adapted eyes having clearly made out the kiwi woman’s face on the pillows.

  
“If it’s big enough. She’s not hurt, just likely to be if we don’t get her out of here. Is there anyone with you?” The immortal was worried. Deadly and efficient the pygmy girl might be, but she was not going to be able to blow up the armory.

  
“Yes,” came a voice that Duncan knew. He looked up at the window opening and saw the masked face of Donna’s husband, not so much as a hair of expression showing. “But it’s nearly dawn and we have to be quick. Any ideas?”

  
“Are you well enough to do this?” he asked, concerned. The face beneath the mask was pale, but nodded. “I need a diversion, and since the armory needs to be blown up, that would be my choice. She’s not in great shape, but she’s good enough to fight her way out of here, given the barest chance.”

  
“When you get out, head for the main temple,” the Phantom told them. “There’s a secret passage behind the altar. We’ll try to set off the explosion before dawn. Zarala, stay with them.”

  
“Yes, o Ghost Who Walks,” said the tiny girl, as if she might have left the blond if he had asked. She quite calmly caught the naked saber that came falling through the opening, and sat silent and still at the foot of the bed, next to the Scot. After several minutes, long and tense, with no alarm raised, the girl relaxed a little, and Duncan gestured her over to a place beyond easy hearing of the sleeping woman. The ornamental fountain would conceal their words, he thought.

  
“Zarala, who’s with him?” he asked, feeling far better than he had only minutes before. “Surely you and he aren’t the only ones here. What if she gets hurt?”

  
“Lady Heloise was outside just now,” the pygmy girl told him, eyes scanning alertly around the unfamiliar setting. “Half the tribe’s hunters, Muzi and Dr. Dorn, Devil and Hero and Tim. And the Kes. All of them. They were here when the Phantom got here today, trying to decide how to get in and kill everyone.”

  
“I trust they don’t still plan to do that?” asked McLeod, alarmed. “There’s people here that shouldn’t be killed, you know.”

  
“No, The Ghost Who Walks talked them out of it,” the tiny girl told him casually. “They didn’t know Lady Donna was in here. He was pretty angry about it, when I told him what I saw last night. That’s why he came tonight. They arrived when I was in here looking around, and set up camp in the dark.”

  
“She’s been through a lot, Zarala,” admitted the immortal. “Things that might have made other women curl up and die on the spot. Let’s let her sleep as long as we can. Is Kit really okay, or is he just ignoring the pain and doing things anyway?”

  
“When no one’s looking,” she said thoughtfully, “he’s not feeling good. As soon as they look, he’s fine. The Kes know, everyone knows, but he hasn’t opened up any of the old wounds yet. I think Doctor Dorn is here for him and Muzi’s here in case anything happens to Lady Donna. The Kes are here because the Emperor tried to take their territory. Now, since they know he has Lady Donna, they just want to kill him even more. Lady Heloise is kind of in charge of them.”

  
“That’s good,” said the Scot, not at all happy to hear about the Amazons. Those women were scary. Donna was their chosen leader, and they thought her inhabited by their mythical ancestor's spirit. They also believed Heloise to be their equivalent of Lancelot, and Zarala to be the legendary assassin-body guard Dahn-seh, or Shadow. Obviously, Zarala was doing her best to satisfy their expectations.

  
“Do Kit and Heloise know where the armory is?” he asked, wondering how the Phantom knew about secret passages in this old pile. “I didn’t have a chance to tell him.”

  
“I’ve been here most of last night and tonight,” the girl told him levelly. “I showed him where they store their guns, and Lady Heloise already had plans to blow it up. She just wanted to be certain Lady Donna wasn’t nearby.”

  
“And did they know I was here?” wondered the man, curious. It would be just like the Rakshasa to blow it up knowing he was nearby, and would survive anyway.

  
“Yes, but I hadn’t seen you, so it wasn't from me,” said the budding assassin, not caring how the Phantom or his sister knew something, or surprised that they did. It was normal, even expected, to the Bandar mindset, as much as to the people outside the Deep Woods. “I did ask about the secret passages, the ones we used tonight. Lady Heloise said the Fifteenth wrote about them, since he destroyed this place. I asked about one to get in or out of here, but she said he never had any reason to write about harem tunnels. And we didn’t find any today, either. Too much activity to poke our noses out and look, she said.”

  
“You were all exploring secret passages today?” asked Duncan, apprehensively. “And one ends in the main hall, the place Djembe uses as a throne room?”

  
“Yes, but we stayed away from there,” Zarala told him. “We knew about that one, and there was lots of noise there. What were they doing?”

  
“Pissing off a god, mostly,” he said judiciously. “Djembe wanted to break Donna’s spirit, and had all his guards line up to take turns at her. Before they started, a god possessed her and promised that anyone who took her without her permission would lose his, uh, sex. No one believed, at first. The first three shriveled up and are now as sexless and smooth as a polished rock.”

  
“What about Djembe?” asked the tiny girl, cold fire in her eyes. “Was he one of them? I should have killed him last night, but Lady Donna told me not to.”

  
“No, he raped her before the curse was made. Donna still intends to lure him into her reach and kill him, but I doubt anyone here is willing to risk that now.” Duncan felt guilty about that statement, and added, “Except me.”

  
“You?” asked the tiny girl in surprise.”Because you are immortal, and expect to heal?”

  
“No, because she has taken me as her second husband,” he sighed, feeling better for having told someone, though it was odd to be confessing to a tiny ten year old girl. “It was my turn, and if I hadn’t done it, I would have been beheaded. Donna didn’t want me cursed, either, so she accepted me. The first man to rape her went crazy and tried to kill her after he lost his, uh, equipment. He killed me, instead, and Donna took his head. Then she very cleverly kissed me until I got better, making it seem that she had done that.”

  
“So they think she can revive dead men with a kiss?” said Zarala, not at all put out about Duncan’s new position. “Or just men she likes? And she doesn’t like men who rape her. If I were a man, I think I’d do exactly what she told me. Will they?”

  
“They have so far,” Duncan said, agreeing with her analysis. “Although, last night, all she wanted was food, chocolate and sleep, mostly. I don’t know what they’ll do today. How soon do you think they’ll blow up the arsenal?”

  
“It’s nearly dawn now,” the girl said, looking over at the still sleeping blond. “We better get her up and dressed. Since you’re her husband, now, you can help. She’ll need to protect her arms and feet for fighting, and something to wear. What is there?”

  
“I’ll get her up, you look around,” he suggested, thinking that having Donna walk naked through the palace complex would probably be all the protection she would need. Any man bold enough to challenge her would be easy meat for her protectors, or her own sword. Mercenaries, by their very profession, were far more familiar with rape than love, and giving a woman pleasure in the sex act was an alien concept to most. They mostly thought themselves good lovers if the woman was still unbloodied when they were done.


	20. Chapter 20

Donna woke at a touch, eyes wide, and looked around quickly. She seemed to be looking for someone, but did not seem frightened. Duncan had been worried that she might have a delayed reaction to her ordeal, a distinct possibility.

  
“I thought,” she began, then shook her head. “I dreamed I heard Kit, that he was here. I guess I still need him to tell me it’s okay, that he still loves me.”

  
“He was here,” Duncan told her gently, handing her a leftover banana from the night before. It was spotted with black, but still good. How had she missed it, the way she loved bananas? “Zarala brought him, but he couldn’t get in the window. He and Heloise are going to try and blow up the armory and distract everyone, and we’re going to escape. You need to get dressed for that. See, Zarala brought your sword for you.”

  
“Zarala?” asked Donna, getting painfully to her feet. “How is he? Is he being careful?”

  
“No, he’s not,” admitted the elfin girl, slicing tiger skin into pieces for Donna’s legs and arms. “Are you alright? The Highlander said you weren’t hurt, but you look hurt.”

  
“Just stiff and sore,” grimaced the woman, looking around for something to wear. “I’d better limber up first, if there’s going to be fighting.”

  
While the New Zealander stretched and bent, wincing at each pain, the Highlander found a set of silken harem pants, a kind of kimono and a length of satin that looked wearable. Donna made a sort of halter top out of the green satin sash, put on the harem pants and found a set of leather slippers that fit her. Zarala was busy at the same time lacing tiger skin bracers to her forearms and calves.

  
“Well, I’m very pretty,” Donna told them, at last, somewhat looser, but no less bruised. Had her green sash bra been brocade, she would have been in real pain. “How am I going to get close to Djembe? I can’t leave until I either hurt or kill him, Duncan.”

  
“You can’t do what you wanted to do to him,” the Scot explained patiently. “It won’t work now. No matter how much you try, he’s never going to touch you again. He’s too suspicious of you, scared of you, to try that again. If you want to kill him, Zarala has a better chance, I have a better chance than you. If you really want to hurt him, though, I think I know a way.”

  
“How!?” she demanded, desperate. “Duncan, if I don’t hurt him or kill him, all this has been for nothing. Worrying Kit, the pain he’s gone through to get here, the pain he’s going to go through when he finds out what that bastard had done to me, did to me. And what I did, trying to get to him, shameful as it was, and about you. All that will be for nothing, pointless, if I can’t get Djembe.”

  
“Tell him what you told me about him last night,” suggested McLeod. “Nothing strikes at a man’s ego like knowing the woman he had sex with was faking, and he didn’t know. Tell him you were acting, that he was a terrible lover, his prick was small, and you hardly noticed it. Believe me, with an ego like his, that’ll be as good as if he did rape you now, almost. Mental cruelty is never as easy to ignore as the physical kind, Donna. Use it. Men are much more sensitive about such things than you women usually know. I’d be crushed if you told me things like that, if I didn’t know that I’d pleased you.”

  
“Hmm, I’ll still have to get close enough to tell him,” Donna said thoughtfully. “And if I do, I’m still going to try to kill him. Save everyone a lot of trouble if I do.”

  
“Make him suffer a little,” Duncan urged, needing to get her motivated. What if she saw the despot and went chasing after him? “Write him a letter. On that wall, say, where other people will see it, too. Only thing that can make that sort of thing worse, is to have other people know about it.”

  
A huge explosion, at that moment, shook the very floor they stood on, almost knocking them down. Bits of plaster and stone rained down from the ceiling and walls as there were other, smaller explosions. A hanging lamp fell from one corner, its flame long out, and Donna picked up her sword. Between the two of them, the adults unbarred the doors and swung them inward. Zarala, arrow ready, hid behind one leaf, her secret presence reassuring to both the white people.

  
The startled, apprehensive guards, having been present the night before, stared at the two, but especially at the blond. She was a barbaric, but very fetching sight in tiger skins, green satin sash, gauzy harem pants bloused at the knees. The saber in her hand was not reassuring, as they remembered very well what she’d done with a sword the night before, and as casually as if it had been swatting a fly. There were six of them, a mercenary and five native warriors, armed with spears and bows, except for their officer, a young black man who had a pistol. He gulped and looked about to speak when Duncan beat him to it. Donna was simply looking levelly at them all, as if deciding which to kill first. Which, actually, she was.

  
“Uh, hi,” said McLeod, thinking fast. “The Lady’s on her way to the Throne Room for more husband tryouts. Any of you want to try for Third Husband to Aboma-Konalh?”

  
Looks of horror and awe crossed their faces, and the young officer, unable to tear his eyes off of Donna, shook his head sharply. He did the only thing any young officer would do in such a situation, snapped to attention, barking at his men to do the same. They looked at him, then back at Donna and did what they had never done for Djembe, the salute to royalty. They dropped their weapons and bowed their heads to the floor. Duncan began to feel better about this.

  
“An escort, perhaps, lieutenant?” the immortal suggested, having accepted the silken kimono in lieu of his shirt. His sword was bare in his hand, as was Donna’s, thought no one seemed to notice him. “And perhaps a messenger to the Emperor, in case he’d like to be present?”

  
“Uh, I don’t think it’s a good idea, sir,” stammered the young man, his accent American, probably a deserter from the Southeast Asian war, Duncan thought. “There’s been an explosion, I think, and the, uh, Queen might be in danger.”

  
“I am in no danger from earthquakes,” Donna said firmly, looking directly at the young man. “Take me to the Throne Room, or I will go on my own.”

  
“Uh, yessir, uh, I mean, yes, Aboma-Konalh,” said the man, with an almost visible certainty that he was going to regret this. He barked orders at the prostrate guards who scrambled to their feet to form around the two whites. One ran off to pass along Duncan’s supposed news. Then, with an escort, they marched along toward the great hall. Zarala silently followed, an unseen shadow behind them, ready to kill any guards who might change their minds. The place was dimly lit, only really used for Djembe’s harem, and the tiny girl was never noticed.

  
Many who were hurrying about in the more populated areas saw them, but no one molested them, whether because of Donna or their escort, Duncan didn’t care. Zarala, making good use of her carefully acquired skills, skulked along behind them, unnoted by any with the authority to stop her. Most of the mercenaries were on their way, half dressed, toward the roiling smoke of the armory, an obvious lost cause. Almost all of them still had their personal weapons, however, mostly rifles and pistols.

  
Donna never flinched by so much as a hair when a small group of mercenaries charged past her own group. The doors to the great hall, where Djembe had displayed the captive blond and watched from his throne, were open, and men hurried in and out. Donna dismissed their escort, who were terribly relieved, with a wave of her sword. She entered the vast stone temple as if she were a god herself. Those who hurried in and out made wide detours around the two Europeans, eyes wide in fear or surprise. Donna paced her way to the foot of Djembe’s throne, her naked blade in her hand, and her look silenced the gabbled reports he listened to.

  
“Djembe, who call yourself Emperor,” she said coldly. “Hear me. I, Aboma-Konalh, wife to the Phantom, challenge you. Meet me in single combat, here and now, or risk my words before these men who follow you.”

  
“I don’t fight women,” sputtered the heavyset black man, his mind trying to understand this woman. Only the day before she had desired him, now she called him out with a sword in her hand. Her ability to heal the dead with her kiss was far too valuable to waste by killing her in some misbegotten duel, he thought. Let her talk.

  
“Then hear my words, all who may,” said the woman, seeing, from the corner of her eye, the tiny Zarala flit toward the altar. She needed to play for time, to keep their attention. Time to grandstand a bit.

  
“This man is no scion of Joonkar’s house, two centuries dead. He has lied and used the people of this jungle to take power. He has caused harm to my husband the Ghost Who Walks, and I have sworn vengeance on him. He has taken me from my place against my will, forced his attentions on me, again, without my permission, and caused others to do the same. In this, there is shame, not for me, but for him, and those who did his bidding.”

  
“Unknown to him, I had planned to be taken by his people, and by him. When he raped me, I allowed him to believe it gave me pleasure, for he is a fool, clumsy and naive about women. He was certain that his tiny penis would impress me and even hurt me. I barely noticed it, other than to make him think so. I have only contempt for him, and for his sort. Should he touch me again, Tangaroa’s curse will end what some other god left unfinished.”

  
Gaping in shock at her words, not able to so much as make a sound, the Emperor Djembe, feeling as if she had kicked him in the belly, watched Donna turn toward the altar, Duncan at her heel. Titters of embarrassed laughter came from carefully anonymous sources around the room. The two whites mounted the steps to the altar unopposed, some thinking Donna would take it as her throne now.

  
“You will respect me!” screamed the outraged, mortified despot. “You carry my child, bitch! Kill her, guards, kill her!”

  
“You had your chance to kill me, coward,” came the blond’s voice, cold and scornful as she went behind the tapestry hanging by the altar. “But you only fight and hurt unarmed women. I will never carry your bastard, for in addition to being stupid about sex with women, you can’t tell one who’s five months pregnant. And I wouldn’t spit on you if you were burning alive in front of me.”

  
Guards reluctantly followed the voice toward the empty niche that had once held the idol worshipped there, but found no one. None had seen the two go, but they were gone. Only an ancient, faded drawing of a skull glared back at them, the symbol of death and the Phantom. Though Djembe screamed and raved like a hysterical woman, no one could find any sign other than the skull. Donna and Duncan were both gone, safe from the New Emperor Djembe and his men.


End file.
